Page 54 of ClickBack

“He thought the hotel would have a court,” I tell her.

“Did it?”

“No.”

“That seems like something to establish before packing a basketball.”

“I’m going to have you call him.”

She laughs sleepily. Her next answer takes longer, and the one after that never comes. I stay on the line another moment, listening to the television she forgot to turn off.

“Goodnight, Zel.”

I end the call and put tomorrow night in my calendar before I go to bed.

The next evening, I wait for Giselle near the entrance to the market. Graves has already walked the block and come back with a recommendation for the chicken stand. I’m looking for it when I see her.

She wears a red sundress with white sneakers and gold hoops. Her bob is tucked behind one ear. She waves to Graves before looking up at me.

“Your man looks like he came to collect somebody’s rent.”

“He hears compliments through disrespect.”

“Then tell him I said good evening.”

“You just did.”

“That was for the tenants.”

I laugh and bend when she comes closer to kiss my cheek. Her perfume catches me by surprise. Vanilla, with something warmer beneath it, almost caramel. I remember how her skin smelled on Saturday, but I don’t remember this. I keep my hand at her waist after she draws back.

“You smell good,” I tell her.

“Thank you.” She glances at my hand, then up at me. “Are we going in?”

“Yeah.” I let her turn, then take her hand. “Graves says we should start with the chicken.”

At the stand, she tries a piece before we find anywhere to sit, then insists she can hold her plate and pull a napkin from the dispenser without assistance. I watch the corner of the plate dip.

“Don’t say anything,” she tells me.

I take it from her while she gets the napkin. She takes it back with considerable dignity.

We eat on a low wall beside a planter somebody has filled with flowers and one abandoned fork. A couple across from us is arguing over directions. The woman keeps showing the man her phone. He keeps pointing in the other direction. Giselle follows the argument without turning her head.

“Do you think he’ll let her drive home?” I ask.

“I think she’s considering going home without him.”

The man eventually turns around. His wife stays where she is until he comes back for her.

“Wise,” Giselle says, and takes another bite.

We wander through a row of tables, stopping when something catches her attention. A woman selling handmade earrings holds a pair against Giselle’s dress, then looks at me.

Giselle catches her. “He’s going to agree with whatever keeps me in this dress.”

“Then I’ll ask you,” the woman says, turning back to Giselle. “The gold or the silver?”