A mosquito net surrounds the four-poster bed and traps the still air. The tiniest movement multiplies the dense heat. My sweat dampens the bed sheets.
It’s a moonless night. I lay with eyes wide open in the dark room listening to the night creatures. Grasshoppers and crickets chirp all night. Cats meow. An occasional dog lets out a howl. Coquis croak their love song.
A dove begins a mournful coo. Soon the whole flock joins the night’s cacophony. I cover myself head to toes with the damp sheets. According to legend, doves coo at night only when they see ghosts.
“It beats me black and blue,” wails Rihanna followed by unprintable words then “must be love on the brain.”
Those words stick in my brain conjuring negative scenarios. When is it acceptable for violence to equate love? Are these allusions to the antiquated notions of bad boy overpowers helpless damsel? Or savage lovemaking between two people that cannot keep away from each other despite destructive behavior? The only image that surfaces is of a broken down Rihanna beaten to a pulp by her then boyfriend. The lyrics do not heal in this me-too generation. They perpetuate twisted interpretations of love.
Brown leaves danced and twirled before their graceful landing. One by one and in pairs they piled beneath the tree. It had been years since Ellen had witnessed the beauty of fall. Leaves in the islands fell from trees when the unforgiving sun scorched them or if the tree were dying. In Brooklyn, they turned from greens to yellows and reds. After their final descent, they lay fallow protecting roots from the inevitable winter.
Ellen inhaled deeply expecting freshly cut green grass. Alas summer had passed. Instead, musty air filled her lungs, a by-product from the accumulation of dead leaves.
The light turned yellow. A sanitation truck barreled down the avenue to beat the light. It stirred the settled leaves. Debris flew in every direction.
Instinctively Ellen shut her eyes and for once was grateful to be wearing eyeglasses. She shook her hair and picked off bits of dried leaves, stems and the occasional acorn shells. She unzipped her bomber jacket. The faux suede from the TSS fall collection was the rage of the season. TSS was the bargain store in the area, a staple in the working class neighborhood. She tugged her green sweater and wiped her glasses clean.
Old Man Monse spent most days rocking himself in his hammock and chewing tobacco then spitting into a coffee can. He only got up when it was time to relief himself but struggled to reach the latrine on time. His once erect back was hunched; his eyes fixed on the ground watching his every step. Hard to believe this was the town’s Judge; the very man who spied the pretty girls when they fetched water. Girls shuddered in fear when they’d notice the judge touch himself when he stared. Now they ridiculed Old Man Monse who had always lacked self-control.