And as I lie there listening for more, another sign from the yard which touches mine, I wonder how many other neighbors have been witnesses, lying, like me, alone in bed, or next to people they love or do not love, their children sleeping in the rooms down the hall or waiting, all hunched halves of potential, in their testicles or ovaries. We sat together. And now I am awake, now I remember. Or something like that, something religious, and one of these women sat next to me, twice my size in her blue dress, taking up her seat and half of mine. And I wanted to talk to her and did not want to, wanted to ask her did she have a daughter and did her daughter have a daughter, and yet was not sure what to make of how she took my roll off my plate as if we had known each other forever and pressed me far into the corner of my seat.
Zaire is a beautiful country.
You should come visit, I'll show you things. Lonely women, all of us, I could feel it from one seat to the next, not terribly lonely, for we all had photos in our wallets as we sped down tracks or through air, but I could tell, still, that they wanted something from me, could feel a thin line of longing, just enough to make me a little nervous. And yet I wrote my address out, each time, gave it to these women, these mothers. This morning, on the phone, she says she has a gift for me. No, I say, that's not necessary, but she says yes, just a little something she brought from Zaire, a tout petit cadeau.