The men in the worker's quarters didn't seem to care when they saw Alexander following me into the house this evening.
At dusk they gathered on their broken-down stoops, fanning themselves and singing some of the songs of their fathers. The melodies they made wafted over the melon patch that separates them and us, and entered into my bedroom while Alexander and I made the sweat of our bodies flow like rivers and the flies drown in the tears of my cries.
We drifted along for hours on the dampness, buoyed by the men's serenade and Alexander's lingering youth. Not even Theo's heavy step or his bellowing at my name or his long pained moan brought us outside of our dank bed of dreams.