La India

Later on that night I heard three taps on my windows. I had forgotten I had shut them and the stagnant heat finally made sense. I pushed back the curtains and opened the windows wide to let the cool night air in. There she stood, in the midst of the night with a street light beaming behind her, showing only half her face. She wore no glasses now and her unruly hair had been tamed into two girlish braids tied at the ends with colored ribbons.

It was already dark outside. Her skin’s copper tone turned into a glow now. She wore a lose tunic that had fallen over a thin shoulder with a long gypsy-style skirt. Her forearms were almost completely covered with gold, ruby-encrusted, solid jade and wooden bracelets. She handed me a piece of paper which made her bracelets tinkle. I saw her delicate fingers covered in rings; there was at least two in each.

I took the paper from her hand and held it for a while. She turned my hand so its palm faced up. While holding my hand with one hand she took the index finger on her other hand and put it on the center of my palm. At this point she looked straight into my eyes.

“Read the note,” she spoke for the first time in a heavy Caribbean accent.

I opened the letter with one hand since she was still holding my other hand. Honestly I had forgotten what I had written. It was something written out of attraction so that I knew I would easily forget. I read the note and re-read it and re-read it again. What had I written to her? Her answer was four words.

I am a whore.

She put pressure on my palm with her index finger. I looked up from the note.

“What did I write to you that you give me such a horrid response?” I asked.

She smiled a wise smile, “You want me. I can see it in your eyes. Do you really want a whore?”

“What exactly do you mean by whore?”

“I work the streets,” she gave me a knowing look. “It’s paying for my school since I have no one.”

“Do you know my grandmother?”

She shook her head. Another smile came to her face. I wasn’t sure what that was for.

“Where are you from?”

“I was born in a small village in Peru. After the death of my mother, I was sent to Santo Domingo to live with my aunt who sent me up here after a couple years. I used to live with aunt and uncle, but they threw me out and now I work just to send myself to school.”

After a long pause I said, “You should talk to my grandmother. She can help you.”

“I don’t need help right now. Just work,” she shrugged.

“Where did you get your accent?”

She shrugged again, “All the different types of Spanish messed up my tongue. Now I sound like such an island girl even after all this time.”

I smiled at her. She didn’t seem to mind telling me so much. Her openness was refreshing.

“What’s your name?”

“Artemisa.”

I closed my hand around her fingers, “Come in, Artemisa. It’s getting a little cold.”

She smiled and stepped through the window and into my room. Her eyes flicked around the room, inspecting my walls, doors, mirror, just about everything that took up space. I stared at her without shame.

“Tu eres tan bella, mi negra,*” I said.

She turned to me and smiled. What a pretty smile. It brightened her face so much. She walked up close to me. How tall she was. Her eyes almost met mine. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kept me close in an embrace. I held her close but carefully; she seemed so fragile in her frail frame.

As the dark got darker outside, we sat then lied down on my bed. I kept her close to me, rubbing her back while she traced letters into my palm. We fell asleep later on; she was the first to close her eyes and breathe deeply.

In the morning, when the sun’s first rays shined straight into my room, I woke up to my arms empty. I was sure that the night before was a dream until I saw a note on my desk.

I am a whore.
But for the first time in a long time,
You made me feel beautiful and wanted.
If you want to see me again,
I’ll be back tonight.
Keep the windows open.

Artemisa.

She had such pretty hand writing.