With that we lost eye contact, his head lowered, as did mine. Mark went by Karl, by me, and followed Jewell Stewark. I understood. He followed his wife, not out of weakness. She was his wife. And he was a married man. He had stood before God and made promises. Some kept, some not.

He owed me nothing. Not even explanation. His wife's car started.

Still, I wished Mark had stayed. I wished he had let her go and stayed through the storm.

Again, with dark clouds overhead, reality rained as the winds of truth roared.

There was a pecking order to emotional entanglements, a hierarchy not always of the heart.

Somehow I felt this one, in the end, despite all that had been said, was of the heart.

Karl stood there, face wet, his shoulders tight, his head down.

In a damaged voice I whispered, "Karl."

He looked at me, his eyes leveling with mine, the position of honesty. He was frustrated and ashamed, his face tight, waiting for me to explode, become typical, say mean and evil things.

I cleared my throat, spoke softly. "Mark and Jewell, they're blocked in. You've blocked them in."

"Let me run down and move my Jeep. I'll come right back."

"Not your Jeep. You've blocked them in."

He paused, evaluating the double meaning of my words. "What are you talking about, Nia?"

"Plea sure has become pain."

"So what are you saying?"

A million thoughts went through my mind. A million questions. I chose one to ask.

I took a shallow breath before I asked, "Will you ever cover up Kenya's name?"

He paused, his shoulders slumping, my question adding weight to what was impossible to carry.

He whispered, "No. I...I can't...I won't remove my angel...for no one."

"Not the angel. Her name. Could you remove her name, or cover it with something new?"

He struggled, and in the end he shook his head, telling me her name was part of him for eternity.

I smiled at him, a man who was holding on to the past, reliving pain with every glance in the mirror, maybe that was his own punishment, his personal hell. Or maybe he was waiting for Kenya to return, wasting time with work and women until his queen came back into his world. Kenya was gone, her relationship with him henna, his image never tattooed in her flesh on that day in Jamaica.

I took a deep breath and swallowed, told him, "Good-bye."

My word was simple, my word was powerful, its meaning unambiguous, and in this moment had the impact of a car crashing into a brick wall. Less was more. Less was what was needed, no long speeches. All I needed to say was good-bye. Karl had said good-bye to many women.

But only one woman had ever said good-bye to him. Only one had truly mattered.

One man had devastated me, rearranged my world with that same two-syllable word. Good-bye. Our parting farewell inspired by moments of insanity. By unforgettable, highly regrettable actions.

Karl understood abrupt partings. He had to. He was wounded, too much like me to not understand. He struggled. I saw him wrestle with his emotions, emotions that, for a man like him, for people like us, would be out of place. He pulled his lips inward, stared at me, wrestled with my decision.

Parting was inevitable. For all of us it was as inevitable as death.

A year from now. Or a month from now. Or a week from now. Or a day from now. We needed to let this moment become our now. I needed to let this moment be my now. Still, inside I struggled with this decision. Anger. Jealousy. Being trapped by desires. Jewell Stewark was who I would become if I continued down this path. Or Mark would become Jewell once I became bored with him.

And I hoped I never became to Karl what Logan had become to me.

Even Karl and I, as simpatico as we were, the final result was already written.

When restless souls collided, there was excitement, but boredom was inevitable.

I needed to stop. Before my rising obsession spiraled out of control. I admit it. I was human. I was woman. Feelings were present. Emotions rising, but not at the point of no return. Yes. I needed to acknowledge my feelings and stop before I became a person who behaved as foolishly as Logan. Before I lost the plot and acted as irrationally as Jewell Stewark.

I had to be done with Mark. I had to be done with Karl. Had to walk away from ecstasy amid a growing storm. Before giving them up mentally would destroy my spirits. Before giving them up created severe withdrawal. If I had already reached that point of no return, I didn't know. All I knew was that I hurt deeply. I felt the beginning of a bottomless pain.

There were countless heartbroken souls walking the earth. Today there would be one more.

Karl moved toward me like he wanted to kiss me, wanted that kiss to turn back time.

As all men did. As I had done so many times.

I wanted him too. Part of me wanted his lips and tongue and words to become magical.

But I knew one thing for sure. Time always moved in the same direction.

I shook my head. He looked so hurt, overwhelmed, like he wanted to collapse from frustration.

I imagined his expression, his angst was the same he had on that day Kenya took her love away.

I didn't worry about Karl. Karl was Karl. A lodestone for women in need of temporary fulfillment.

I whispered, "Good-bye. Good-bye. I say it twice. Once for you, once for Mark."

Karl nodded, then opened the door, headed out into the downpour; Karl being the one who had everyone blocked in, him being the one who needed to move so all could move on and be free.

I waited until all were gone. A lover and his wife. A lover and his sister-in-law.

Then, when I was once again alone, I showered, lay in my bed naked, on my back, unmoving, ceiling fan spinning, surrounded by the fading scents of old lovers, staring at the rain.

The rain that fell from my eyes rivaled all Southern storms.

I wept.

For me. For them. For all of us.

I held myself and wept.

FORTY-FOUR.

Tropical breezes caressed my skin, brought infinite warmth, like the breath of an unseen lover.

The sun was high, clouds few, mosquitoes and sand fleas many.

This was my sun. This was my sea. This was my heaven filled with mosquito repellant.

I'd been gone from Smyrna for two weeks.

For the last three days I had been living in peaceful solitude at Maracas Bay Hotel. Three days of swimming in the sea. Three days of sun. Three days of bake and shark.

Three days of reading.

Three days of writing in my journal, at least thirty pages written between each sunrise and sunset.

That was my confession, my therapy, always on paper, never to the judgmental.

Suntan lotion on my body, flesh that now possessed the hue of the deepest brown, I was on the second largest island in the West Indies. I was in Trinidad. I was alone, but not lonely, not today, not in this beautiful and picturesque moment, because I was at peace, my inner self breaking bread with the spirits of my long-deceased ancestors.

This was my haunt. My special place in the world, the most stunning beach on the island. My towel and picnic basket were underneath the shade of a towering coconut tree, the weather hot and humid, sunglasses on as I relaxed on the crowded coastline, hundreds of locals and tourists swimming, bodysurfing, and playing in the waves. It felt good to be back in the land of Carib beer. Where the steelpan was invented, created by enslaved Africans and Afro-descendants. Looking around, seeing the peacefulness and joy emanating from the children of the West Indies made me smile.

I was on sabbatical, easing away from the undertow of anguish, from my own obsessions, from moments of cruelty, abandonment, and betrayal. This was the cycle of life. This was what Eros brought, the sought-after and the unwanted forever tethered to the pursuit of plea sure.

I went back toward the waters, my feet first walking across burning white sands, then standing where the emerald waves crashed into the shore, let the warm waters wet me up to my waist, diving under the large waves as they rolled into shore, floating on my back awhile, then I decided to blend with the people celebrating deeper in the sea, take one last swim before driving back over the mountain.

They were near me for a while. They were kissing, touching as if no one was around.

He was a young Spanish boy, no older than seventeen. Dark-skinned. Handsome with long hair. Well-built. The girl with him was an Indian girl. A slender girl. Long black hair. Skin well-tanned.

Water rushing up to my breasts, I drifted out to sea, drifted toward them as I watched them. They reminded me of what part of me longed for. To be held without being held captive.

They eased closer to the shores, playfully splashing water on each other as waves rushed in, laughing and diving underneath the larger waves, gradually moving to chest-high waters.

She put her arms around his shoulders, and he lifted her. She held on to her lover, wrapping her legs around his thighs, her arms around his neck as her lover cradled her butt with both hands. They tasted each other, whispered to each other, and enjoyed the five senses with one another.

There was that subtle movement, one that told me her hand was slipping under the sea, easing her bikini to the side, feeling his erection, testing his strength. She spread her legs around him, guiding that hardness beyond the material of her swimsuit toward the lips of her yoni. She shifted around in that way a woman does when she was trying to get the head to break the skin. She was bold, as if it was her sea, as if plea sure in the salty waters was her entitlement.

Hundreds of people were around. Vendors walking the beach selling jewelry and fruit.

Her eyes were closed tight. Her mouth eased open into the letter O.

He had closed his eyes, held her tight, his heavenly moment melding with hers.

I watched them as if I was studying erotology.

They were beautiful.

I left knowing that it wasn't only me consumed by desire.

It wasn't only me basking in my humanness.

Back in Port of Spain I rode around like I was a tourist, drove near Morvant and Laventille, slums and shantytowns, the area where my mother grew up, where my father was killed before I was born, an area the papers said was populated by drug lords, the type of man my father had longed to be.

I wondered who I would have been if my mother had not left here in pursuit of the American Dream. Wondered if we would have ended up in government homes paying fourteen dollars a month as rent, with an option to buy. If I would have worn a uniform and been a bank worker, or an airport worker, or if I would've sold fruit from the side of the road, wondered which noble profession I would have had, or if I would have lived in a shantytown and had more babies than the old woman who lived inside a shoe.

Before Hollywood my mother had labored in sugar fields, killed chickens, and milked cows. My mother had worked hard to improve her life, to make sure my life was better than hers.

I wasn't spoiled. I had been given options, a better way of living, but I was never spoiled.

Tears in my eyes, I called my mother.

She answered on the second ring. "Hello, good afternoon."

"You made a lot of sacrifices for me."

"Who in the world is this?"

"And I love you for that."

My mother moaned. "Look what you did. Now I'm crying."

"Are you really crying?"

"Hell no. This makeup is too expensive for tears. But I will schedule a cry for later."

She laughed. I did too.

I asked, "What are you doing?"

"About to step into a meeting. You?"

"Just left the beach." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands, imagined my mother was doing the same, her voice telling me she was emotional too. "I'm going to Rituals for a latte, then to the house."

"I should come down this weekend and we could go to Millennium and golf."

"Let me know. I'll make callaloo, maybe cook steamed kingfish and vegetables."

"Check the calendar for fetes."

"Already have the info on all the Carnival launches."