Part 3: Sabrina
 Sabrina inspects her feet; the twisted iron makes a long red welt on her thick heel. She shifts her foot so that the plantar bears the brunt of pressure, then back to the heel. Her lacquered toes are painted in the hue oyster pearl. She likes the iridescent shine in the fading sun. Astrid tried to persuade her to try a darker color, something teasingly feminine, but pearl was the first color to catch her eye. She imagines it’s a color her mother would have chosen. Perhaps when the color chipped and the shine faded she would take Astrid’s advice but the mild, nearly natural color suited her. Inside, Astrid is whisking eggs in a bowl and speaking to Roland on the cordless phone. Every once in a while she rubs the first two vertebrae on her ivory neck or twists her glossy hair in her hands only to let it fall to her shoulders again. An omelet with cheese and garlic butter was on the menu. She often had cravings for morning foods on Sunday nights. She liked to play Bebel Gilberto or Toquinho when she cooked. She said that listening to Portuguese and whisking cream and eggs made her feel like a goddess in the kitchen. The sweet sounds of Samba always made Sabrina drowsy before sunset on Sunday. The street that evening was clear save the occasional taxi and strolling couple. A dog barks somewhere and somebody lets out a jaunty laugh. The air is pleasant, like stepping into a warm bath. Sabrina closes her eyes. Hearing Astrid’s voice low and seductive on the phone reminds her of the fantasy she held of her mother. She never knew Lotje. She never knew her voice or if she played with her hair the way Astrid did. She’d seen a photo when she was small; a dark woman with thick black curls at her shoulder, in a plain sundress walking barefoot down a Caribbean road. The houses in the photo were dark pink and green with corrugated metal roofs and palm tress scattered around the yards. The woman looked happy, tall and strong with a beautiful smile and her hand at her cheek. Sabrina imagined her dark, delicate hands picking bones from fish, washing clothes with smooth stones at a river, oiling and plating hair. She imagined her knees and wrists smelled like sea salt and that pungent smell when fresh leaves are crumpled. Lotje must have had a raspy voice; that would explain Sabrina’s natural hoarseness and she must have whispered a lot or sometimes not even spoken at all. Maybe she only mouthed words or let soft hums come from her throat. These thoughts comforted the motherless girl. Her father could not provide her with such detail. It wasn’t that he refused, he just couldn’t. The last time he spoke about Lotje, Sabrina was twelve and had just gone to bed. As was customary, he came to her door to see that she was settled and then did something he had not done for many years. He lay in the bed with her and showed her the photo of Lotje. He said it was among her things when she arrived in Miami. He let Sabrina hold it, memorize her mother and the house and the tress and then took it form her. Sabrina loved her father that night and hated him all at once for never showing her the photo again. She brushes the pad of her little finger across her toenails. They are dry. The gloss and neatness reminds her of what city she is in and she feels more camouflaged in the jungle of beautiful women. Through her parted knees, she sees a light is turned on in the building across the way. The sky is soft pink and hazy purple. The lights around the city are not shining bright but in another few minutes they will be. The tango music will start next door, Astrid will be quiet as she spreads the egg in the pan and turns Bebel down to a murmur, women will laugh as they are hurried around corners and somewhere somebody will sing a nearly forgotten song accompanied by tattered accordion. Sabrina is hungry. She looks at the light through her corduroy knees and sees that the light comes from the blonde woman’s apartment. She puts her feet down and leans forward. She sucks her bottom lip free of blood and then lets the crimson rush back into white flesh. The man appears in a tuxedo shirt and a black bowtie. He leans against the window and sits on the sill. A pair of hands embrace his shoulders; the nails are bright red again pale skin and the while shirt. “Sabrina, dinner is ready.” Astrid calls. The tea kettle makes a slow whine and silverware clashes as Astrid rummages for a set of knives and forks. Sabrina stands; her long pants cover her toes and rasp across the floor. She slides the glass door closed and watches the two figures. He still does not move, only his back jerks and his neck seems to go limp. Astrid pours the hot water on loose tealeaves and smiles proudly at the carefully folded omelet and roast chicken slices. “Bon Appetite.”
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