The woman smoked cigarettes. You finished your pawpaw, surreptitiously watching Iago, his chale-watas wet still from washing the car. Not for a minute do you believe what they say. A cooking fire flickering against the black of the sky and their laughter in bursts, muted refrains. Like a fetish offering. You found the slippers with the beading, beckoning cheerfully, slipped these on. When he drove into a small wood and turned off the engine, I knew what was on his mind,
The outburst made you start, spilling tea on your T-shirt.
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There were hands at your waist. You are playing pool, all tall, dark and handsome, twisting the chalk on the top of your pool cue. The wine ran into the pool like a ribbon of blood. Sunlight, the Pacific variety, was always death for her. The woman smoked cigarettes.