Moth Smoke

9 five

The ashtray’s full, I haven’t brushed my teeth, and there’s no place for me to spit out the dry paste that’s on my tongue.

My temples throb. Slow, sweaty throb-throbs. Joints have started giving me a headache rather than a buzz. Their smoke lingers in my sinuses, in my nasal cavities, air trapped in pockets between irritated membranes, drums reverberating with my heartbeat. I rub the ridges above my eyes with my fingers, the rooted hair of my eyebrows slipping over hard, impenetrable bone, swollen flesh over dead skull over incessant pain. Maybe I’m dehydrated. Maybe it’s the heat. But I’m getting sick of sitting at home with nothing to do but wonder whom I can convince to lend me some more money.

It would be nice if Murad Badshah really were hardcore, if we really could take his gun and walk up to some rich little bastard, some nineteen-year-old in a Pajero with a mobile phone and nothing to do but order around men twice his age. A kid like that would have a few thousand in his wallet. Ten thousand, maybe. I could use some nice, new, thousand-rupee notes, like the notes Mumtaz pulled out of her pocket at the party when she bought us the ex. But Murad Badshah’s just a big talker. And when I think of the boy Ozi killed, of his flattened head like a half-cracked egg, the shell shattered but its shards still clinging together, keeping the wet stuff inside, I know I don’t have what it takes to use a gun.

But you get no respect unless you have cash. The next time I meet someone who’s heard I’ve been fired and he raises his chin that one extra degree which means he thinks he’s better than me, I’m going to put my fist through his face.

I yell for Manucci.

‘Yes, saab?’ he says, coming in. His face has begun sprouting fluff like a caterpillar spinning a cocoon. I’d better teach him how to use a razor before he takes on the fundo look.

‘I need to spit,’ I tell him.

He looks at me expectantly. When I don’t say more, he ventures another ‘Yes, saab?’

‘Bring me a tissue.’

He goes off to the kitchen and reappears carrying a trash bin. ‘We’re out of tissue, saab. You can spit here.’

‘Good thinking.’ I spit into the bin, scrape the paste off my tongue with my upper front teeth, and spit again. No more tissue. No more meat. Soon no more toilet paper, no more shampoo, no more deodorant. It’ll be rock salt, soap, and a lota for me, like it is for Manucci.

Which reminds me, I haven’t paid him this month.

A car honks outside, and after emptying the ashtray into the bin, Manucci goes to see who it is. I wipe the sweat from my face, dry my hand on my jeans, and run my fingers through my hair. The front door opens and Mumtaz steps in, wearing track pants, expensive-looking running shoes, a T-shirt, and big shades. She’s followed by a very curious Manucci, grinning sheepishly.

It’s been three weeks since the party, and I’ve thought of her every day. But I haven’t wanted to meet Ozi, and I couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse for me to get in touch.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d drop by and say hello.’

I stand up, flash my most charming smile, and almost step forward to give her a kiss, but think better of it, because my breath probably smells. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ I say, motioning for her to sit. ‘Can I offer you some lunch?’

‘No thanks,’ she says, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m on my way to the gym. But I’d love a glass of water.’

‘Bring one for me as well,’ I tell Manucci.

Mumtaz takes off her shades and hangs them from the neck of her T-shirt, between her breasts. She has broad shoulders, not thick but wide, and she lounges in her exercise clothes with the relaxed physical confidence of an athlete. ‘It’s hot in here,’ she says. ‘Load-shedding?’

I almost say yes, almost lie instead of saying that I’m out of cash and have no electricity and owe money to half the city. But I decide not to. I’m a bad liar. I don’t have the memory for it. And I feel like telling her the truth.

‘I’m broke,’ I say. ‘The power’s been disconnected.’

She smiles at me for a moment as though I’m making fun of her. Then she flicks the ash of her cigarette and says, ‘Really?’

I nod.

‘Why don’t you take some money from us?’ she asks. ‘Ozi will give you as much as you need.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t want any money from Ozi.’ The words come out more forcefully than I’d intended.

She raises her chin at my tone, but looks concerned rather than offended. ‘Why? Are you upset with him?’

I almost say, Because he killed a boy and doesn’t give a shit and I don’t want any of his corrupt cash. But instead I say, ‘I’m not upset with him. We had a little argument. Nothing important.’

Manucci comes in, unable to meet Mumtaz’s eye, giggling slightly as he hands us our water. When he leaves, Mumtaz leans forward and presses her glass against her cheek. ‘It sounds like there’s more anger in you than you want to admit.’

I shrug. ‘He’s a good man.’ I’m shocked when I hear the words, not because I’m saying them, but because I don’t believe them. ‘We’ll be fine.’

She takes a sip of her water and looks at me like she knows I’m lying. ‘We’ve been having problems,’ she says.

She strokes her glass with her cheek, and I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to go on. But she’s quiet for a while, looking away, and when she looks at me again, I can see that she’s decided to say no more about it for now. ‘I don’t want to bore you,’ she says.

‘You’re not boring me,’ I tell her.

‘I hate being so morbid all the time.’ She gives a little laugh that isn’t at all happy. ‘I think part of my frustration is that I haven’t been getting enough exercise. Do you work out?’

I let her change the subject. ‘Not really. I do some push-ups and sit-ups, or go for a run, but not regularly.’

‘What about boxing?’

‘I hit a bag sometimes.’

‘Can you teach me?’ she asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I need a good workout.’

‘Now?’

She gets up and raises her fists. She’s grinning, but there’s an intensity in her eyes that my coach would have liked to see.

‘If you want,’ I say.

I go to my room for some equipment and take her to the back of the house, where my old heavy bag hangs from a rusty chain. We sit down on a wooden bench, straddling it and facing each other.

‘Show me your hand,’ I say.

She does.

I turn it over, a little hesitant when I touch her because I don’t want to be rough but I’m afraid that if I’m too gentle it’ll seem like a caress. ‘I’m going to wrap it,’ I tell her, slipping the loop of a rolled-up hand wrap over her thumb. I slide the cotton tape around her skin, encircling her wrist, slowly, so she can see how it’s done, then curving the tape up and around her fingers.

‘Take off your ring,’ I say.

She does. It’s a solitaire diamond, simple and probably worth almost a year of my salary at the bank, when the bank paid me a salary. She puts it down on the bench behind her.

I keep wrapping, covering her knuckles, binding her long fingers together, then spiraling back down to her wrist. Finally I tie the two tassels at the end of the hand wrap. I tell her to make a fist and then let go, and I watch the blood rush back into her fingers.

‘Do you want to do the other one yourself?’ I ask her.

‘I’ll try,’ she says. She slips the loop over her thumb and starts to wrap, keeping about the right tension, neither too loose nor too tight. Sometimes I have to guide her hand with mine.

‘Let me tie the end,’ I say when she’s done.

‘I want to try.’ She grabs one tassel with her teeth, pulls the other around her wrist with her fingers, and ties a knot. I’ve had these hand wraps for a long time, but seeing them on her skin, seeing her use her mouth to tie them, makes them seem less familiar.

Finally I show her my gloves, once bright red, now faded and scuffed with use. ‘These will be too big,’ I say, putting them on her. ‘But I want you to wear them, because I don’t want you to hurt your hands.’

She stands up, squares her shoulders, and raises the gloves. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face, and she looks beautiful. I reach out and take her shades off the neck of her T-shirt, conscious of my fingers touching the skin below her throat, and set them down on the bench near her ring.

I look at her stance. ‘Spread your legs slightly,’ I say. ‘And bend your knees. Stand on the balls of your feet.’ Her body moves exactly the way I want. ‘Perfect. Now bring your hands up. Higher. That’s the basic on-guard position. After each punch, you want to come back to it.’

She starts hopping up and down and making mean faces.

‘Easy, champ,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s learn a couple punches first. This,’ I say, tapping her left glove, ‘is your lead hand. And this’ – I demonstrate – ‘is a jab.’ I throw another, much faster this time, just touching her glove with my bare hand. ‘Let’s see it.’

I talk her through a few basic punches, and she learns fast. Her movements are fluid, efficient, her attention focused on me when I’m explaining and on her own body when she’s moving. I put my hands on her arms and shoulders from time to time to adjust her position, and I feel long muscles under soft flesh.

After she’s warmed up and has the hang of it, we move to the heavy bag, and I start by demonstrating one punch at a time. She watches me, breathing steadily, her face shiny with sweat, a smile pulling at her lips. Reaching up, she shuts her eyes and wipes the sweat from her forehead with her arm. I want to touch her face, smooth the sweat out of her eyebrows with my fingers. Then she opens her eyes and sees me staring at her, and I turn and slam my hand into the bag with a ferocity that surprises me. Suddenly I’m going all out, punching hard, deep in my rhythm, coiling and exploding, again and again, dancing, my muscles full of blood, hitting on the move, slipping punches. The bag is jumping. My hands are brutal. I shake my head, smile violently, and hit it.

Then I stop, my breathing an easy pant, and look at Mumtaz. Our eyes meet and I feel the rhythm in my blood beating loud. I look down. Damn: my hands. I should have worn gloves, because now I’ve rubbed the skin off my knuckles.

Mumtaz steps up to the bag. She hits it hard, like she wants to punch right through it and trusts the strength of her wrist. The bag rocks slightly, and she hits it again, drawing power from her legs and twisting her body to put her shoulder behind the punch. She throws her punches at a slow, measured pace. Soon the bag is swinging. I hear a grunt of exertion, a sound almost like rage. She hits the bag like she’s furious with it, like she wants to hurt it. And she keeps on hitting it, completely intent on the bag, and my surprise at her strength gives way to a new surprise at her endurance. Finally she stops, puts her arms around the bag, and presses her forehead into it.

I tap her on the shoulder and she turns. ‘I guess I needed that,’ she says, grinning.

‘So who were you punching?’ I ask her.

‘Who were you punching?’ she replies.

I smile. ‘I was just showing off, I suppose.’

She hits her gloves together. ‘So was I.’

‘You have a lot of stamina for a smoker.’

‘I work out. Besides, I have an older brother, so I’m a fighter.’ Her T-shirt is dark around the throat and along the back of her shoulders, where her skin touches the wet fabric. ‘Are you ready to box?’ she asks me.

I start to laugh. ‘You won’t be able to hit me.’

‘Let me try.’

I stand in front of her and let my hands dangle at my sides. ‘Punch me in the head,’ I say.

She puts her hands up and throws a punch. And she doesn’t hold back. I watch the red glove coming and pull my head back at the last moment, grinning at her surprise. She keeps trying, but she can’t hit me.

‘Stop,’ I say finally.

She does, dropping her hands.

‘I boxed for years,’ I tell her. ‘It’ll take you a while before you can hit me.’ Then, just to tease her, I shut my eyes and lean forward, offering up my best ‘do it if you dare’ face.

Hot sunlight glows orange through my eyelids.

I feel the punch coming and don’t move, don’t even open my eyes. I’m sure she’s bluffing. Then my head snaps back as her punch hits me full in the face. ‘What the hell was that?’ I say, shocked. I touch my mouth and my fingers come away with a streak of blood.

She’s laughing, one glove in front of her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, trying to look apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. But I just couldn’t resist.’

I grab her by her wrists, just below her gloves, and pull her to me. She looks up, still smiling, and I can feel my mouth throbbing from her punch.

I’m intensely aware of every contact between my body and hers.

‘I could knee you,’ she says. Her leg moves up slightly, between mine, and I realize how vulnerable I am. That would hurt.

I let her go.

‘I wasn’t actually going to knee you,’ she says.

‘I didn’t think you were going to punch me either.’ My lips feel a little puffy as I speak.

‘I didn’t think I’d be able to hit you.’

I smile at her, feeling my lips stretch. ‘Very funny.’

I help her out of the gloves, and she takes off the hand wraps, rolls them up, and gives them to me. Then we head back inside and finish off a pitcher of water. Mumtaz stays for lunch. The sweat has dried on her face and covered it with dirty streaks. I imagine licking one and almost taste the salt, but I try to get the thought out of my mind before she sees what I’m thinking. I don’t eat very much, a little ashamed that there’s no meat or even chicken. I just watch her serve herself and clean all the food off her plate, wishing there was some reason for me to reach out and touch her skin.

I look at my hands. Who would have thought that I would ever teach a woman to box and come out of it with a bloody mouth and torn knuckles?

‘Let me see them,’ she says.

I reach across the table. She runs her fingers over my red knuckles, lightly, but doesn’t say anything. Then she turns them over and strokes my palms with her thumbs.

‘I went to see a palm reader the other day,’ she tells me.

Palm readers must be the new fad among the idle rich. ‘I would have thought you were too educated for that sort of thing.’

‘I’ve told you I’m superstitious.’ She lets go of my hands and lights a cigarette.

‘And is this palm reader a well-connected young socialite?’

‘Her name’s Allima Mooltani. She’s about sixty and she lives in Model Town.’

‘A well-connected old socialite, then,’ I say, taking one of her cigarettes. ‘How much did she charge?’

‘Five hundred. But she spent an entire hour with me.’

‘I can’t believe you paid that much.’ I do some quick arithmetic. Let’s say she sees three people a day and works five days a week. That comes to seventy-five hundred a week, thirty thousand a month. That’s more than what I made as a banker, before taxes. And she probably doesn’t even pay taxes. Why am I sitting here, deeper and deeper in debt, when palm readers are making that much?

‘What are you thinking?’ Mumtaz asks me.

‘Nothing,’ I say, noticing that the ash has grown on my cigarette. I flick it. ‘What makes you think this woman isn’t a complete fake?’

‘That’s hard to explain. She doesn’t try to tell you that your eighth kid’s name will be Qudpuddin or anything. She just shows you yourself.’

‘For five hundred an hour I’d want to know my eighth kid’s name, birthday, and favorite dessert.’

‘You have to go.’

‘No thanks. I can’t afford it.’

‘My treat.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘You have to. I’ll take you.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Manucci comes in with her ring and shades, which we forgot on the bench outside, and she takes them casually, not at all upset that she was so absentminded.

‘Do you know what happens when you detonate a nuclear bomb under the desert?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘The sand turns to glass.’

‘From the heat?’

She nods.

When she leaves, I present my cheek for her to kiss, but she kisses my lips instead, softly. I smile in surprise, and then I remember pulling her to me earlier, which makes my smile wider even though my mouth hurts. And she smiles back at me like she knows what I’m smiling about. Then she’s gone, and I sit back down to lunch and finish off the food. Manucci clears the plates, giggling to himself, and although he’s just being silly, he makes me laugh as well.

The celebrations begin not long after Mumtaz has left. How everyone knows I don’t understand. The excited trrringing of bicycle bells brings me to the gate, witness to the victory parade of a half-dozen gardeners, long shears tied to the backs of their Sohrabs, pedaling triumphantly, wobbling, clapping as often as balance and courage will allow.

Manucci brings the news with him at a run, doubled over with the effort, from the neighbor’s servant quarters.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask him.

‘We’ve done it,’ he pants.

‘What?’

‘We’ve exploded our bomb.’

I feel something straighten my back, a strange excitement, the posture-correcting force of pride. Manucci looks up at me, his face sweaty, dirty, and grins. We shake hands like old comrades, two warriors home at last, and I’m about to say something, to launch into a little self-congratulatory speech, when a sound interrupts the flow of my elation.

From somewhere down the road we hear the first burst of celebratory gunfire, a hard-edged firecracker set to automatic, emptying its magazine into the sky. And I find myself thinking of my mother, beautiful, wasp-faced, with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, her strict expression softened by sad eyes and a small, round smile. Never any jewelry, holes in her ears shriveled shut, still-black hair pulled into a bun. How young she always seemed, young enough to be mistaken for my sister the year she died. But not the day she was buried: bloodless, all color drained from her face, wrinkles visible in her pale skin like creases on a ball of paper.

Manucci puts his fingers in the air and launches into a spontaneous bhangra. The Kalashnikov spits again. I head inside.

That evening Raider comes to see me. He’s wearing his power suspenders, the ones with a red polka dot on either side, which he calls the Rising Sun.

‘Five each, baby,’ he says, giving me a hug.

‘Five each.’

We sit on the bonnet of his car and share a cigar. ‘It’s a Havana,’ he tells me.

‘I hate cigars. You can’t inhale them.’

He shakes his head and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Work is miles away, but Raider’s still wearing his tie. His jacket hangs in the car, broad shoulders, no vents, very European, copied from GQ by a tailor on Beadon Road.

‘Good parties tonight.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. People are feeling good. It’s been a nervous couple of weeks.’

‘Armageddon parties?’ I ask, trying to sound superior, mainly because I haven’t been invited to any.

‘Initiation parties. Welcome to the nuclear club, partner.’

‘Are you going?’

‘I’m going to your buddy Ozi’s.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you there,’ I say, hiding my surprise. I didn’t know Ozi was having a party.

Raider spits out a piece of tobacco and takes a few quick puffs. ‘I have to ask you a favor. I need some pot.’

My stash is running low. ‘I can give you enough for a joint or two.’

‘I need more. I promised a couple of friends and all my sources are out.’

‘I can get you some in a few days.’

‘Before the weekend?’

‘I think so.’ I should be able to track Murad Badshah down before then.

‘Thanks, partner. I owe you, big-time.’

Raider likes that phrase, big-time. He wants to make it, big-time. He owes you, big-time. He’s going to party, big-time.

‘No problem, yaar,’ I tell him, thinking I have nothing better to do. ‘How much do you want?’

He takes out a note and hands it to me. ‘Five hundred worth?’

‘That’s a lot of hash.’

‘I know. Do you think you can get it?’

I’ve never placed an order with Murad Badshah that he couldn’t fill. ‘I think so.’

‘Great,’ Raider says.

I feel strange buying that much pot, especially since it isn’t for me. It isn’t even for Raider. It’s for his friends. But Raider’s an openhearted guy and there’s no way I can turn him down. Besides, I might be able to keep a little for myself, a heartening thought given the sorry state of my supplies.

Once the cigar is finished, I invite him in to share a joint, but he tells me he has to run and drives off. Raider’s always rushing. He’s busy, big-time.

Mumtaz picks me up after lunch the next day for our date with Allima Mooltani, the palm reader. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I am doing it, slouching a little in my seat as though it’ll make me less visible if Ozi or someone we know happens to see us. Mumtaz seems completely unconcerned. I don’t know what she’s used to in Karachi, but here in Lahore going for a drive with a friend’s wife when the friend doesn’t know about it definitely qualifies as self-destructive behavior.

‘I like your servant, Munnoo-ji,’ she says as we power down Main Gulberg Boulevard, cutting through traffic. We’ve decided to get a couple of paans since my appointment isn’t for another half hour.

‘He’s called Manucci, not Munnoo-ji.’

‘Manucci? That’s a strange name.’

‘I think it’s Italian.’

‘But he’s not Italian.’

‘No.’

‘Then why is he called Manucci?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where does he come from?’

‘He tried to rob my mother.’

‘While he was working for you?’ She takes the Liberty roundabout at high speed.

‘Before. He’s had a colorful past. Kind of like Kim.’

‘Kipling’s Kim?’

I nod. ‘But not as romantic. Manucci’s missing a kidney.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The kidney-theft racket. But he’s lucky: they only took one of his, and they were nice enough to sew him back up.’

We reach Main Market and pull into a space in front of Barkat’s paan shop. A dozen runners surround the car, knocking on the windows, each claiming he saw us first. I realize that it was stupid of us to come here: Main Market’s paan runners are Gulberg society’s elite reconnaissance team. I point to my guy, Salim, and wave the rest of them away.

Once Salim’s taken our order, the beggars move in. Most are genuinely crippled, or hooked on heroin, or insane, or too old to work, or dying from some debilitating disease, and I’d give them a rupee or two if it weren’t for the few strong ones, perfectly healthy, waiting to take their cut when night falls. But Mumtaz is more softhearted than I am, and when our runner comes back with the paan, I have to tell him to clear them away. Give money to a few and the whole market wants some. I tip Salim very well, with a look that means keep your mouth shut, because he knows who I am and who Ozi is, and a leak from him could spark some vicious gossip.

Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask Mumtaz since I spoke to Raider. ‘How was your party?’

She looks embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry he didn’t invite you. But what a stupid reason to celebrate.’

‘Is he angry with me?’ What I’m really asking is: Has he found out we’ve been spending time with each other?

‘No, of course not. Why would he be?’

‘You tell me.’

‘He isn’t. I think he’s just trying to meet new people. He’s been away from Lahore for so long that he feels a little cut off.’

Mumtaz honks until the driver of the car that pulled in behind us, blocking our exit, comes running out of a shop.

Then we’re off to Model Town for our appointment. The palm reader lives in an old house with a crumbling boundary wall. I expect to be led inside, into a dark room with a crystal ball, perhaps, but Mumtaz takes me onto the lawn.

Allima Mooltani is sitting in the shade, on a cushion at the base of an enormous tree, smoking through a long ivory holder. An extension cord snakes through the grass, providing electricity to a pair of pedestal fans. In front of each fan rests a slab of ice covered with motia flowers. Allima’s long hair, mostly white but streaked with gray, moves like a tattered curtain in the wind.

‘This looks like an abandoned ad for menthol cigarettes,’ I tell Mumtaz, but she elbows me. We say our salaams and sit down.

I have to admit that it’s surprisingly pleasant out here, with the ice and fans and shade.

‘I’ve been waiting for you, Darashikoh,’ she says.

‘My God, you know my name!’ I exclaim.

‘Be serious, Daru,’ Mumtaz says.

‘Give me your hands,’ Allima tells me.

I do, and she strokes them with her forearm, front and back. I break out in goosebumps. Her fingernails are long and unpolished.

‘Shut your eyes.’

I do it. She gives me an exquisite hand massage, following the bones of my fingers into my palms, tracing the scabs on my knuckles lightly with her nails.

‘I have bad news for you,’ she says.

‘What?’

But before she can answer a woman calls out from the house. ‘Telephone, Amma. It’s Bilal.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Allima says, jumping up. ‘My son. In Singapore.’

And with that she’s off at a trot. The door slams shut behind her like the distant retort of a howitzer, and I’m left looking at Mumtaz.

‘The suspense is too much,’ she says.

‘If she knows the future she should schedule these palm-reading sessions so they’re not interrupted by phone calls.’

Mumtaz shakes her head. ‘You have no faith.’

I light a smoke, cupping my hands against the best efforts of the pedestal fans.

We hear the unmistakable phirrr of a kite at low altitude and look up. Sure enough, there it is: a red-and-black patang, slim-waisted, wasplike, wing tips curved back like the horns of the devil. On the rooftop, directly above the door that swallowed Allima Mooltani, the patang’s young pilot acknowledges us with a jaunty salute.

Mumtaz waves to him.

And in the driveway, struggling to get aloft, we have the challenger: a battered machhar, its tail a white pom-pom, green-and-purple patches telling tales of battles past. And string in hand, jerking rapidly to capture altitude, is the machhar’s commander, a barefoot servant boy a little taller than the bonnet of the car beside him.

We’re in for a kite fight.

The patang, temporarily denied any more string, catches the wind and soars straight up.

The machhar flips about at tree level, displaying a tendency to circle in a counterclockwise direction. But its minuscule commander manages to use this imbalance to his advantage, timing his tugs to the moment the machhar’s nose points in the direction he wants, finding maneuverability in capriciousness.

And slowly, the machhar climbs.

The patang paces back and forth far above.

Then suddenly, paper screaming in the wind, the patang dives at the machhar. The machhar makes an agile leap to one side, narrowly avoiding having its string hooked, and the patang spins and climbs again.

Mumtaz says a quiet ‘Olé.’

‘He’s in trouble,’ I say. ‘The patang’s not going to let him get high enough for it to be a fair contest.’

Having lost some altitude, the machhar begins to jerk upward again, crisscrossing the sky warily.

Again the patang dives, and again the machhar dances off, too unsteady at this height to have any real chance of winning, but this time their strings entwine and the kite fight is joined.

The patang takes string like a sprinter, streaming away.

The machhar wobbles unsteadily.

Powdered glass on each kite’s string cuts into the other’s, but the patang’s string is moving much more quickly, giving it more of a bite and less time to fray.

I follow the lines with my eyes, taut and straight from the roof, limp and curved from the driveway. The patang’s posture is solid, strengthening. The machhar twitches weakly.

And with a final tug the machhar’s string is cut, leaving it to flop onto its back and drift gracefully, more steady in death than it was in life, until it plunges onto a lawn several houses away.

A high-pitched victory cry from the rooftop: ‘Ai-bo!’

And in the driveway the servant boy sucks his finger, cut by the glass, as he gathers what string he can save with his other hand. There isn’t much. He looks up at the patang, now a tiny dot in the distance, before trudging back to the servant quarters, defeated, kiteless.

Only then does it occur to Mumtaz and me that Allima still hasn’t returned.

‘What should we do?’ I ask her.

‘Let’s ring the bell.’

A woman answers the door, barefoot. She has beautiful feet. ‘I’m sorry, but Amma is meditating.’

‘Meditating?’ Mumtaz gives me a look. ‘But she was just reading his palm.’

The woman raises the big toe of her left foot. ‘She said she is done. You know all you need to know.’

‘But she was just beginning.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Mumtaz is ready to continue protesting, but I take her elbow with a grin and lead her back to the car. ‘Forget it,’ I say.

She shakes her head. ‘How strange.’

‘Well, you know how these mystics can be.’

She looks at me. ‘You’re happy about this, aren’t you? You thought she was a fake from the start.’

‘Amused, perhaps. And a little happy we can leave. I need a joint pretty badly.’

‘Where can we go?’

I think. I don’t want to go back to my place. It’s almost evening, not too hot now, and I’d like to be out in the open. ‘How about Jallo Park?’ I suggest.

‘I’ve never been there.’

‘They have a zoo.’

‘Really?’

‘With peacocks.’

‘Let’s go.’

We drive down the canal, cross the Mall, and head out of town. I roll. Mumtaz prefers open windows to the AC, and the rush of air makes it difficult to keep the mixed tobacco and hash in my palm. But I manage. When I’m done, I ask her if I should light it and she says yes. I slide the car’s ashtray out and hold it in my hand, underneath the joint, to catch any burning pieces that might fall as we smoke.

‘Why Zulfikar Manto?’ I ask her.

‘Manto was my favorite short-story writer.’

‘And?’

‘And he wrote about prostitutes, alcohol, sex, Lahore’s underbelly.’

‘Zulfikar?’

‘That you should have guessed: Manto’s pen was his sword. So: Zulfikar.’

I take a hit and cough through my nostrils, gently. ‘How have you managed to keep it a secret?’

‘It isn’t that hard. No one keeps tabs on where I am during the day. And I usually don’t slip out to work at night unless Ozi’s away.’

‘Don’t the servants say anything?’

‘They have, once or twice. Ozi asked me what I was up to and I told him I’d gone out for a get-together at somebody’s place. That was that. Ozi isn’t the untrusting type.’

The joint’s finished by the time we pull into the Jallo Park entrance. It’s the middle of the week, so there aren’t too many people here, and no one bothers us. We stroll around the caged animals, nicely buzzed.

‘So how are things with Ozi?’ I finally ask.

Mumtaz shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You said you’d been having problems.’

‘We are.’

We stop in front of the peacock area. A pair of albinos strut by, the male unfurling his white fan, making it shake by quivering his hips.

‘That’s a clear signal,’ I say. ‘Nature knows how to be direct.’

Mumtaz laughs, her eyes on the peacock.

The peahen is less impressed. She walks away.

If there’s ever an appropriate time to ask Mumtaz what’s going on with us, it’s now. I want to know what she thinks of me, of the time we’re spending together, of where this is headed. And I’d like to tell her that I’m confused as hell. But my tail seems stuck and I can’t unfurl it.

The moment passes.

We walk on, past other fences, other animals.

I ask her about Muazzam.

‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘He seems to like Lahore.’

‘What does he do when you go out?’

‘He has a nanny, Pilar. She’s lovely. She cut the umbilical cord.’

‘In America?’

‘No, here. Muazzam had me on a leash until she came along. But now I can disappear for the entire day and I don’t have to worry about him. I could disappear forever, I suppose.’

I grin. ‘That wouldn’t be very motherly of you.’

She turns, and I’m shocked to see anger in her eyes. For a moment I think she’s about to punch me.

‘What?’ I ask softly.

‘Who are you to judge me?’

‘I wasn’t judging you.’

‘Yes, you were.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I said.’

She shakes her head and walks on, and I raise my face and squeeze my eyes shut, pissed at myself for being unable to understand. I follow a few steps behind her. We don’t speak until we reach the car, but I don’t want to get in without making amends somehow, so I take hold of her elbow and turn her around.

‘Listen, Mumtaz, I’m sorry. Really. I’ve had a wonderful day with you. I think you’re wonderful.’ I pause, aware that I’m being astoundingly inarticulate. ‘I don’t want you to be angry with me.’

Well, I’m clearly no poet. But what I said seems to work, because her face softens and she says, ‘Forget it. It has more to do with me than with you.’ That’s it, no explanation, but at least my apology seems to be accepted.

Once, on the drive home, she holds my hand between gear shifts, between third and second, and I’m glad for the reassuring touch of her skin on mine. We talk, but we’re talking about nothing, just reestablishing a comfortable space, and although our first fight hasn’t been erased, I think it’s safe to say we’ve survived.

When we get home we kiss, again on the lips, soft and tender and brief, like a kiss between friends, except that I always kiss my friends on the cheek.

I have to make two trips to Murad Badshah’s rickshaw depot to get hold of him. That’s usually how it works, because Murad Badshah’s rarely in and there’s no telephone number where he can be reached. I once told him he ought to get a pager and he said that pagers are an American idea and the only good thing America’s ever given us is Aretha Franklin. Bizarre fellow, Murad is. Anyway, on my first trip I leave a message saying I’ll be back at eight the following night. On my second I cruise down Ferozepur Road, past Ichra, hoping he’ll be there, because the weekend’s almost here and Raider’s relying on me.

He’s eating dinner, his drivers and mechanics gathered around him in a circle, their food on metal plates on the floor of the workshop.

‘Hullo, old chap,’ he calls out as he sees me, surging to his feet. Or rather, he says something to that effect with his mouth full as one of the younger mechanics helps him get his bulk off the floor.

He offers his wrist for me to shake, because his hands are greasy.

‘Will you do us the honor of joining us for dinner?’ he asks. ‘Tonight we’re having a special feast. Lakshmi Chowk’s best.’

I hadn’t planned on it, but a free meal is a free meal, and I’m partial to Lakshmi myself. ‘I’d love to,’ I say.

A generous space is cleared for me next to Murad Badshah and I sit down, rolling up my sleeves as I grab a naan and get to work. I’m famished, and I can hold my own when it comes to eating, so I match Murad Badshah bite for bite, until he pats his stomach, releases a resounding belch, and announces that he’s stuffed.

A boy brings us mixed tea, milk and sugar already present in generous quantities, and Murad Badshah takes a dainty sip, the small finger of his left hand extended away from his teacup.

A driver wearing a Sindhi cap grabs the roll of flesh that circles his midsection and says, ‘I’m about to explode.’

‘I saw it last night on television, you know,’ says another, a drop of sweat hanging from his nose. ‘The explosion.’

‘What was it like?’ asks a mechanic.

‘They did it under a mountain,’ explains sweaty nose. ‘The mountain trembled like an earthquake. Dust flew into the sky. And the rock turned dark red, like the color of blood.’

‘How would you know?’ asks Sindhi cap. ‘You only have a black-and-white television.’

‘But it’s a very good one. You can almost see colors.’

‘Bloody fool. It’s black-and-white.’

‘No, but you can sometimes tell what the real colors are. I swear.’

‘Nonsense.’

Sweaty nose doesn’t argue. ‘The blast was fantastic,’ he says to the mechanic.

‘How fantastic could it be?’ Murad Badshah asks. ‘It was underground.’

‘The shaking, the dust. It was too good.’

Murad Badshah farts loudly. ‘There. Shaking. Dust. Was that too good as well?’

Sindhi cap pinches his nostrils shut. ‘That was a bad one, Murad bhai.’

‘My bad one won’t double the price of petrol. It won’t send tomatoes to a hundred rupees a kilo. But our bloody nuclear fart will.’

‘Let tomatoes go to two hundred,’ says Sindhi cap. ‘I hate tomatoes anyway. And if the price of petrol doubles, so what? We’ll raise our prices. We’ve done it before.’

‘And who will pay?’

‘The tomato farmers who are getting two hundred rupees a kilo.’

This gets a laugh.

‘Good one, yaar,’ says sweaty nose.

Murad Badshah shakes his head. ‘This nuclear race is no joke. Poor people are in trouble.’

‘Let us be in trouble,’ Sindhi cap says, to the approving nods of the group.

‘The Christians have a bomb. The Jews have a bomb. The Hindus have a bomb.’

‘The Buddhists have a bomb,’ interjects sweaty nose.

‘Right,’ continues Sindhi cap. ‘Everyone has a bomb. And now the Muslims have a bomb. Why should we be the only ones without it?’

‘And when prices go up, and schools shut down, and hospitals run out of medicine, then?’

‘Then we’ll work twice as hard and eat half as much.’

‘We’ll eat grass,’ says sweaty nose, quoting from one of the Prime Minister’s speeches.

‘And do you think people who eat grass will still go for rides on rickshaws?’ asks an exasperated Murad Badshah.

‘At least we’ll be alive,’ Sindhi cap says.

‘We would have been alive anyway. The entire world knew we had the bomb.’

‘I didn’t know,’ says sweaty nose.

‘Yes, and it’s one thing to say you have it, and it’s another to shake mountains,’ says Sindhi cap.

Murad Badshah snorts. ‘Shake mountains. We’ll see who gives a damn about shaking mountains when we can’t pay for the rent of this depot and our rickshaws break down and the only things for sale at Lakshmi are boiled onions.’

‘We had to protect ourselves.’

‘My roof protects me,’ says Murad Badshah. ‘My full belly protects me. You boys think we’ve done a great thing. But you’ll see. Difficult times are ahead.’

Sindhi cap and sweaty nose exchange a look. But no more is said. The mechanics clear the food and the drivers head out to their rickshaws to begin their night rounds.

Murad Badshah and I remain seated.

When we’re alone, I tell him I need five hundred rupees’ worth of hash.

He strokes his jowls. ‘Five hundred, old boy? May I ask why such a large amount?’

‘It’s for some friends.’

‘Heavy smokers?’

‘Clearly.’

He gets up, opens a toolbox, rummages around inside, pulls out some hash, and plops it in my lap. It’s about the size of my fist and wrapped in a transparent sheet of plastic.

‘This is fine stuff. I’m giving it to you for five hundred, but you can easily sell it to people of means for two thousand or more.’

‘Why are you giving me so much?’

He laughs, his body shaking. ‘I help out my friends. And when a friend buys in bulk, he gets a fair price.’

I grin. ‘Thanks.’

He nods. Then he takes something out of his pocket. ‘See if they like this as well.’

‘What is it?’

‘Heroin.’

‘No thanks.’

‘You never know. Your friends might be interested. It’s not much. I’ll throw it in for free with what you’re buying.’

I examine it. ‘It looks like hash to me.’

‘It’s mixed with charas. But believe me, the heroin is there.’

I slip it into my pocket and thank Murad Badshah, turning down his offer to smoke a joint, because I don’t want to arrive at Raider’s place too late. On my way I break off a healthy chunk of hash for myself. I’m almost out, after all, and five hundred for the rest is still a bargain.

Raider lives with his parents in a housing colony off the canal near the university. I ring the buzzer and he comes out of the house to see who it is.

‘Partner,’ he says when he recognizes my face over the gate.

We shake hands. ‘I’ve got it,’ I tell him, handing it over.

‘This is a hell of a lot of hash,’ he says. ‘Is it good?’

‘Yes.’ Murad Badshah never fools around with inferior stuff.

‘I can’t take it from you for so little. Here, take another five hundred.’

I wave his hand away. ‘It only cost five.’

He pushes the note into my palm. ‘I’m not going to give it to them for less than fifteen hundred. If you don’t take a cut I’ll feel guilty.’

So he is selling the stuff, after all. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I insist.’

Pride tells me to give it back, but common sense tells pride to shut up, have a joint, and relax. I shrug and put the note into my wallet.

‘Do you think you could do this again?’ Raider asks.

‘Get more pot?’

‘This much for so little.’

‘I could, I suppose.’

‘There are definitely people who would buy from you. It might be good, you know, keep you liquid till you find some work.’

‘I’m liquid enough, thanks.’

‘Come on, yaar. Don’t get defensive. What about the electricity? A little extra cash can’t hurt.’

‘Enough, Raider.’

‘Okay. Sorry. Thanks for helping me out. I appreciate it.’

We shake hands and I head off. In the car my wallet sits snugly between my rump and the seat, a folded note thicker than it was a little while before. I wait for regret and guilt to come, but they don’t show up. The whole thing is between Raider and his friends. If he’s selling and they’re buying, it really has nothing to do with me. Just a little cash for my troubles, money that will make life easier for a few days. And it isn’t another loan, another debt to Fatty Chacha, who can hardly afford to lend to me in the first place.

Besides, I’ve topped off my stash, and that’s cause to celebrate.

When I get home I find Manucci staring at a candle on the mantelpiece for no apparent reason.

I walk over to him, my shadow dancing on a different wall from his.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

‘A moth in love, saab,’ Manucci says.

Sometimes I don’t understand what he’s talking about. But I do see a moth circling above our heads.

‘Bring me the fly swatter,’ I tell him.

‘No, saab.’

I hit him across the top of his head, not too hard and with an open hand, but forcefully enough to let him know that I won’t put up with any impertinence. ‘What do you mean, No, saab?’

‘Please, saab,’ he says, cringing. ‘Watch.’

The moth circles lower, bouncing like a drunk pilot in turbulence. I could clap him out of existence but I don’t, because I’m getting a little curious myself.

The moth starts to make diving passes at the candle.

‘He’s an aggressive fellow, this moth,’ I say to Manucci.

‘Love, saab,’ he replies.

‘I never knew you were such a romantic.’

He blushes. ‘The poets say some moths will do anything out of love for a flame.’

‘How do you know what the poets say?’

‘I used to sneak into Pak Tea House to listen.’

The moth stops swooping, enters a holding pattern about two feet above the candle, and then lands on the wall in front of us. It’s gray with a black dot on its back that looks like an eye.

‘That’s an ugly moth,’ I say.

I wait for Manucci’s response, but he says nothing.

The moth doesn’t move.

‘He’s afraid,’ Manucci says.

‘He should be. Love’s a dangerous thing.’ I look carefully. Dark streaks run down the moth’s folded wings. ‘Maybe he’s burnt himself.’

The moth takes off again, and we both step back, because he’s circling at eye level now and seems to have lost rudder control, smacking into the wall on each round. He circles lower and lower, spinning around the candle in tighter revolutions, like a soap sud over an open drain. A few times he seems to touch the flame, but dances off unhurt.

Then he ignites like a ball of hair, curling into an oily puff of fumes with a hiss. The candle flame flickers and dims for a moment, then burns as bright as before.

Moth smoke lingers.

I lift the candle and look around the mantelpiece for the moth’s body, but I can’t find it.

For a moment I think I smell burning flesh, and even though I tell myself it must be my imagination, I put the candle down feeling more than a little disgusted.

The city plays host to a fundo convention the weekend after the kamikaze moth’s last flight. The bearded boys are celebrating our latest firecracker with parades, marches, and speeches. The score is 6 to 5, and we’re up. I suppose it’s 6 all if you count their first one in ’74, but that was arguably another match, and either way, we’re certainly not behind, even if we’re also not clearly ahead.

One night a very serious Ozi comes to see me.

He’s here to talk, but it’s too hot for him inside and I don’t want to sit in his Pajero with the air conditioner on and the engine running, so we compromise by climbing up to the roof, where it’s a bit cooler.

The last time Ozi and I were up here together was the night before he left for America, eleven years ago. That night I was the angry one, angry because he was leaving me behind, because Lahore was about to become lonely, because I’d done better than he at school, on the tests, and he was the one going abroad for college. I’d studied with the richest boys in the city, been invited to the homes of the best families. And money had never really felt like a chain until the summer they all left. Five of our class fellows were on Ozi’s flight the next day. I remember their names. And dozens of other boys we knew were flying out over the next few weeks. Nadira would be in Lahore a little longer, until September. She was our biggest crush. Ozi joked I’d never have the guts to do anything by then, and afterwards he would be the one to get her because I’d be too far away. He was wrong: I kissed Nadira many years later, after she came back to Lahore, but before she launched her husband hunt, before she left me to pursue men with Pajeros.

I have no doubt why Ozi has come. He must have found out that I’ve been seeing Mumtaz behind his back. He probably wants to beat the hell out of me. I’d let him do it, because I know I deserve it, because I’ve betrayed him in my mind, even if little has actually happened. But Ozi knows I could thrash him if I wanted, and if he was going to beat me up he’d have come with some of his father’s men. He’s here alone because he’s decided to hit me with guilt instead of hired fists.

He still hasn’t spoken, so I ask, to make it easy for him, ‘Where’s Mumtaz?’

‘At home,’ he answers. ‘Muazzam has a fever. But I wanted to talk to you about the accident. Did you tell the police?’

‘No,’ I say, surprised.

‘Good. I wouldn’t want to get my father involved.’ He looks at me. ‘So you haven’t told anyone?’

Remembering that day, digging it out from under a month of charas and sweat, I start to get angry. ‘No,’ I answer.

‘Thanks, yaar. I must admit, I’ve been pissed off with you. I didn’t like the way you acted. It wasn’t what I expected from a friend.’

‘Really’ is all I can say.

‘We’re not the boys we were when we were seventeen,’ Ozi says. ‘But my view on friendship hasn’t changed. Friends support each other no matter what. Do you agree?’

He’s right. That’s what friends do. I’m not sure if I have any now, but when I did, when I was younger and it was easier to have friends, that’s how I thought of them. ‘I agree,’ I say.

‘Good. I still consider you my friend. I’m ready to forget the way you acted after the accident.’

‘Thanks,’ I find myself saying, suddenly too sad to say anything else. ‘I’m sorry.’

We shake hands and embrace. But for me, holding Ozi now, this moment marks an end. I hold him tight because I’ll miss him. I already do. But he’s a bastard, and I don’t owe him a thing. And if his wife wants to see me without telling him, there’ll be no pain in my guts over it.

I say so long to Ozi tonight, and I mean it.

As the five hundred rupees I made from the hash deal with Raider quickly disappear, I consider doing it again. It seems easy enough: buy the stuff cheap from Murad Badshah and sell it dear to acquaintances with money to burn. Most of the party crowd smokes, and so does the younger banking and business community. And everyone complains about being out of hash.

The problem is that selling hash seems sleazy somehow. Lower class. I still like to think of myself as a professional, not rich, but able to stand on my own, with a decent income and a job that doesn’t involve bribing or being bribed, helping my friends with a little hash when they’re out, getting a little booze from them when I am.

But I’m not a professional anymore. And I need the money. Temporarily.

I decide to do it again.

I buy another five hundred rupees’ worth from Murad Badshah, split it into four little balls that I flatten into pancakes and wrap in plastic, and head out to a popular spot for business lunches near Mini Market. I recognize a dozen faces as soon as I come in, and a couple of people invite me to join their tables, but I turn them down because I see Akmal sitting by himself, sipping a soup while he chats on his mobile. He was one of my clients at the bank. His family sent him to Lahore a few years ago, when they thought they’d have to leave Karachi because of all the kidnappings, and he stayed, living off the income of a million-plus U.S. that he has sitting in his bank account. He does some small-time business ventures, but mainly he’s a man of leisure, twice divorced and a big pot smoker.

I stand by the door, feeling a little embarrassed, and wait until Akmal hangs up.

‘Sit,’ he says as we shake hands.

‘Why not?’ I take a seat and pick up a menu.

‘My new account officer doesn’t know the first thing about client relations,’ he says. ‘I offered him a Scotch when he came by my place and he said he doesn’t drink.’

I order some food, which is stupid, since a meal here costs much more than I can afford, but I need time to decide how to ask him if he needs some hash.

We talk general business talk for a while, and he listens closely to what I’m saying, because I know my stuff, I know the near-bankruptcies and defaults businessmen love to hear about, and my information may be dated, but it’s still good.

When the bill comes, I reach for it, but he takes it from me over my objections, his manner slightly condescending, in the way the rich condescend to their hangers-on. I should pay, being the first to get my hands on it, but the total is four fifty-three and I only have a couple hundred on me.

‘Drop by for a drink sometime,’ he tells me as he places a five hundred on the table, but I know the offer is insincere.

‘I’d love to.’ Then I flex my abs and take the plunge. ‘You know, I got my hands on some good charas today.’

‘Really?’

I hope he’ll say he wants to buy some, but he doesn’t. ‘You don’t need any, do you?’ I ask after a while.

He grins. ‘I can always use some. I’ll take whatever you can spare.’

‘I can give you about five hundred worth.’

‘Come by my place tonight.’

‘I have it here.’

He looks at me, surprised. Then he starts to laugh. ‘I love it. You people have balls, yaar. Slip it to me under the table.’

I don’t like the ‘you people’ comment but I do it anyway, startled to feel him place a note in my hand because I didn’t see him take one out. But he’s from a business family, so I suppose this is what he was bred for.

As he drives off he rolls down a window and says, ‘You didn’t get fired for trying to sell dope to bank clients, did you?’

Laughing, he speeds away.

Maybe he doesn’t think what he said was insulting, or that someone like me can even be insulted, really. But humiliation flushes my face.

And something inside me starts to snap.

I suck the spit through my teeth and nod to myself, rage building. Then I run to my car and pull out onto Alam Road behind him, my bald tires squealing. But even though I drive like a maniac, my Suzuki’s no match for his Range Rover. I lose him near Hussein Chowk.

He probably didn’t even know I was chasing him.

I circle the roundabout, five hundred rupees richer, and I think I’d be willing to pay all of it for the chance to hit him, just once, on his double chin. Making money this way isn’t worth it. These rich slobs love to treat badly anyone they think depends on them, and if selling them dope makes them think I depend on them, I just won’t do it.

But as I’m sitting at home I realize that I sold him a hundred and twenty-five rupees of drugs for five hundred. That makes me feel a little better. Not much, but definitely a little. I promise myself never to sell to any of these rich bastards unless I can rip them off. Let them think they’re getting a fair deal. And if they’re nasty enough, maybe I’ll slip a little heroin into their hash, just to mess with them.

Making money this way isn’t pleasant, but it’s easy, and easy money is exactly what I need, even if there isn’t enough of it to pay an electricity bill.

I spend most of my time smoking and thinking of Mumtaz. It’s been a week since we went to Jallo Park and I miss her. I tried to reach her on her mobile once, but Ozi picked up and I had to ring off without saying anything. I wish she would come to see me.

Every time I roll a joint I keep it for a while, hoping she’ll appear so I can share it with her. But she never does. And Manucci must be leaving the screen doors open, because there seem to be more moths in the house every evening, circling candles, whirring in the darkness. I kill them when I can catch them, until my fingers are slick with their silver powder. But most of the house is dark at night, and there’s little I can do about the invasion. Sometimes, when Manucci’s asleep and I have no one to talk to, I get stoned and take out my badminton racquet to smash a few. Occasionally the biggest ones make a pleasing little ping as I lob them into the ceiling, but more often they just explode silently into clouds of dust.

One night I’m doing this, sweating in the heat, my body lightly powdered with moth dust, when a car honks outside the gate.

It’s Mumtaz. She says nothing when she sees me, shirtless and clutching a badminton racket. I take her up on the roof.

‘Ozi’s out of town,’ she says. ‘And Muazzam’s crying like mad. I left him with Pilar. I had to get out for a while. I wanted to see you.’

‘Would you like a joint?’

‘Please.’

I have one rolled and waiting in my cigarette pack, so I light it and pass it over.

I watch her face in the glow of the burning hash and tobacco. She seems worried.

‘What are you thinking about?’ I ask.

She passes the joint back to me and watches me smoke it, but she doesn’t answer. Then she reaches out and wipes sweat down my shoulder with the blade of her hand. ‘What were you doing?’ she asks.

My fingers are trembling and I drop the joint so she won’t notice. The tip breaks off, smoldering separately from the barrel between my feet. ‘I was killing moths,’ I say. My shoulder burns where she touched me.

‘I want to kiss you,’ she tells me.

I can hear my breathing.

Her fingers curl through mine and I close my fist, holding them there. Our eyes meet and I look away, but she leans forward, leans until her forehead presses against mine and her hair falls around my face and her breath touches my lips.

She kisses me.

And we’re touching and tasting, roving each other, and I’m overcome and afraid of her and willing all at once. We shiver, the hair on our bodies rising as the night heat bakes dry the sweat and saliva on our skin. I’m pushed down on the roof, worn brick pressing into my back. She takes a condom out of her handbag, one hand stroking my throat. Then we make love, and as my eyes follow the curve of her body above me, I see the moon, round, perfect, the color of rust, burning like a flame to her candle.

She takes me and keeps me.

It’s like someone’s died. I hold her tight, muscles tense, pulling away from the bone. And I know she knows what I’m feeling, because the tears on her face mix with mine.

Afterwards, when she leaves me lying there, I smell the moth dust mixed in with her sweat and my sweat on my body.