When Norma woke
up, she was standing in the parking lot, a bag of French fries in
her hand and neon lights spilling letters down her shoulders like
a brilliant waterfall or something just as big.
"Norma" I called,
"where's the catsup?" But what I really wondered about
was the car, her nightgown soft as breath, and the moon air that
pulled her from our bed and into the streets.
Every night I waited for Norma to
abandon herself to that moment of sleep. Behind the headlights,
she became a real night angel with velvet dice, fenders, and a
strong southern wind. Sometimes I followed her, watched her move
between the curbs and alleys as if they were rooms in our house,
then caught her just before she went too far. And sometimes I
just waited, half asleep, drinking and dreaming about a man and
his woman with the thin, faithful ankles.
Afterwards, Norma never explained,
and I never asked. But I had my thoughts. I called it hunger. Not
for the flesh of a new man. Not for slow dance in tight, dimly
lit corners. But a hunger — a deep, mean hunger — for
something that she couldn't speak but grew too large when she
closed her eyes and gave her body to blacktop.
"Norma," I called again,
"save some for me." As she turned, I remembered her
hair, the way it twisted, long and leisurely, across her forehead
like a crown or borrowed halo. Sure, I wanted her then. Sure, I
wished she wanted me.