watching us but she didn’t seem upset. I don’t even know why I assumed she’d be jealous. I should have been jealous. I don’t think I was jealous.
‘Come closer,’ Elijah said. He showed me what he had: a flute that was made of burnt yellow wood with zigzags etched in it with a knife. He turned it around while he held the mouth end.
‘We might settle here,’ he said. ‘Gayl’s been sick.’
I turned back to look at Gayl. She’d gone under the covers. I was trying to figure out her body under there. Elijah scratched the hairs of his beard. I heard something whirring, a little like a fan. I stared at the lump of her, unmoving.
‘Come,’ Elijah whispered. ‘Let’s leave her alone.’
Elijah had this expression of caring for me. But it was just for a moment before his eyes shifted to Gayl in the bed.
He poured me a third mug of wine. ‘Drink up,’ he said. He wagged the flute.
I knew this was it. I knew we were finally going to have sex. This is what I had come here for, that disturbance .
‘You good?’ Elijah’s hand was on my shoulder, pushing me towards the bathroom. I thought I was going to drop my wine. ‘You gonna make me crazy again?’
I made my eyes go like the porn girls’ eyes. I made my eyes glassy and rabid and hot.
‘Yeah, you’re gonna make me lose it, bitch.’
I smiled. Elijah had such a good body, his arms were huge. His eyes were just as needy as mine.
If my father knew I was here he would’ve called the police. Being a bitch in a dirty motel, feeling my ass move side to side in my skirt with a man who was twenty years older than me.
Elijah left the bathroom door open a crack. The light was fluorescent. Elijah’s dreadlocks fell out to each side and seemed to separate his face in two, as if he had a good face and a bad face. The tiles were swirly mother-of-pearl. The grout around them grew flowers of rust. I looked up at the ceiling, a buzzing white tube hung from two tiny chains.
‘You scared?’ Elijah looked behind me towards the crack in the door.
I was totally wet. I liked both of his faces.
‘That’s okay, Angel. Come right here. Come to me.’
I didn’t feel degraded. It occurred to me that an angel could not be degraded.
‘We’ll go slow,’ Elijah said, gripping my arm. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I was finally where I wanted to be. In a bathroom alone with this man who I wanted so bad. His hand squeezing my arm made me rush, anticipating it. Gayl, his girlfriend, was in the other room. I felt wild. She hated me.
LEE: You’ve got to be careful about a woman who hates you. Women are vengeful fuckers. Powerless women, completely the worst.
GAYL: Powerless? Who’re you calling powerless?
LEE: Look, it’s not personal. It’s systemic. Systemic oppression inherited from generations of our people being enslaved. It’s made us ruthless and vengeful, ideally. I’m a black woman too, you know. My mom’s from Zimbabwe.
GAYL: Well, your theory is bunk ’cause I’m an artist. An artist from Kentucky. Artists don’t count.
§
Lee read the first draft of my essay in the ravine, under our light. I titled it ‘Sex Slaves: The Modern, the Foreign, the Free.’ I was trying to prove that all slaves are ashamed but that within this shame there is the potential to be free. I was echoing Agamben, I think, and trying to challenge the historical information about slaves which says that they are ashamed and subjugated, thus they can’t ever be unashamed or free.
Slaves, it seemed to me, had secrets, secret lives.
I was expanding the definition of slave to suggest that there was such a thing as being enslaved and being free. I remembered the exploitative exhibition I saw with my mother in Key West. It was exploitative because it was totally from the viewpoint of the oppressors, not the slaves. So far I knew that slaves were ashamed, or portrayed as ashamed, because a) they had no freedom, b) they were enmeshed in wars and c) they were always kept apart and alienated from each
‘Come closer,’ Elijah said. He showed me what he had: a flute that was made of burnt yellow wood with zigzags etched in it with a knife. He turned it around while he held the mouth end.
‘We might settle here,’ he said. ‘Gayl’s been sick.’
I turned back to look at Gayl. She’d gone under the covers. I was trying to figure out her body under there. Elijah scratched the hairs of his beard. I heard something whirring, a little like a fan. I stared at the lump of her, unmoving.
‘Come,’ Elijah whispered. ‘Let’s leave her alone.’
Elijah had this expression of caring for me. But it was just for a moment before his eyes shifted to Gayl in the bed.
He poured me a third mug of wine. ‘Drink up,’ he said. He wagged the flute.
I knew this was it. I knew we were finally going to have sex. This is what I had come here for, that disturbance .
‘You good?’ Elijah’s hand was on my shoulder, pushing me towards the bathroom. I thought I was going to drop my wine. ‘You gonna make me crazy again?’
I made my eyes go like the porn girls’ eyes. I made my eyes glassy and rabid and hot.
‘Yeah, you’re gonna make me lose it, bitch.’
I smiled. Elijah had such a good body, his arms were huge. His eyes were just as needy as mine.
If my father knew I was here he would’ve called the police. Being a bitch in a dirty motel, feeling my ass move side to side in my skirt with a man who was twenty years older than me.
Elijah left the bathroom door open a crack. The light was fluorescent. Elijah’s dreadlocks fell out to each side and seemed to separate his face in two, as if he had a good face and a bad face. The tiles were swirly mother-of-pearl. The grout around them grew flowers of rust. I looked up at the ceiling, a buzzing white tube hung from two tiny chains.
‘You scared?’ Elijah looked behind me towards the crack in the door.
I was totally wet. I liked both of his faces.
‘That’s okay, Angel. Come right here. Come to me.’
I didn’t feel degraded. It occurred to me that an angel could not be degraded.
‘We’ll go slow,’ Elijah said, gripping my arm. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I was finally where I wanted to be. In a bathroom alone with this man who I wanted so bad. His hand squeezing my arm made me rush, anticipating it. Gayl, his girlfriend, was in the other room. I felt wild. She hated me.
LEE: You’ve got to be careful about a woman who hates you. Women are vengeful fuckers. Powerless women, completely the worst.
GAYL: Powerless? Who’re you calling powerless?
LEE: Look, it’s not personal. It’s systemic. Systemic oppression inherited from generations of our people being enslaved. It’s made us ruthless and vengeful, ideally. I’m a black woman too, you know. My mom’s from Zimbabwe.
GAYL: Well, your theory is bunk ’cause I’m an artist. An artist from Kentucky. Artists don’t count.
§
Lee read the first draft of my essay in the ravine, under our light. I titled it ‘Sex Slaves: The Modern, the Foreign, the Free.’ I was trying to prove that all slaves are ashamed but that within this shame there is the potential to be free. I was echoing Agamben, I think, and trying to challenge the historical information about slaves which says that they are ashamed and subjugated, thus they can’t ever be unashamed or free.
Slaves, it seemed to me, had secrets, secret lives.
I was expanding the definition of slave to suggest that there was such a thing as being enslaved and being free. I remembered the exploitative exhibition I saw with my mother in Key West. It was exploitative because it was totally from the viewpoint of the oppressors, not the slaves. So far I knew that slaves were ashamed, or portrayed as ashamed, because a) they had no freedom, b) they were enmeshed in wars and c) they were always kept apart and alienated from each
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