She was one of those golden mulatas that French-speaking Caribbeans call chabines, that my boys call chicas de oro; she had snarled, apocalyptic hair, copper eyes, and was one whiteskinned relative away from jaba.

“The half life of love is forever.”

“Out of nowhere you said, I love you. For whatever it's worth.”

“Do you remember? When the fights seemed to go on and on, and always ended with …”

“Dude, you don't want to be dead. Take it from me. No-pussy is bad. But dead is …”