“Very good, or very well, you say good or well? Which? It doesn’t mattereds again, I know. Nothing mattereds to Americans in English. Very good and well, make me some love some more. So tomorrow I have such a sore trout,” she means twat, she only knows dirty words for body parts, “I can not love. What will I feel, a burn like cigarette when I swim, is that how Americans feel love, a trout stings? You see how American exactly wrong you are?” She bites my shoulder gently. “It’s why I like you, you think everything like American, and all is wrong. You are no danger to my life.” She’s back on top, “I love my husband, you believe it? I love my husband like you don’t even know, you know?”

              “I know.”

              “Poor, poor baby, too sleepy for talking. Sleep.”

              She lights a new cigarette, dials the phone. “Hello please? My husband is there? You are my husband? Well, dear darling, then you are going to kill me.” She cradles the receiver against her neck, lolling across my thighs. She picks up the sheet, and slowly, it takes longer than you’d think, burns a hole in it. “I know, I know, I know,” she sings it to him. “You love me. Else why else are you going to kill me? Stop talking. I confess all to you. I burned the sheet again.” She holds out the phone so I can hear.

              “You’re right,” he says. “Some day. I am killing you.”

4

  

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