Another refill and I caught him looking at his own reflection in the window. He grinned sheepishly. It’s ok, Jack, this is you at your peak, lead rolls in the pictures, money, women, fame. This is you on top, before the injections and the rejections. You shouldn’t be ashamed to look. You’re fabulous.

“New haircut, not sure I like it,” he said and pulled a strand or two.

Oh, don’t speak, Jack, just come over.

Why is it always the woman who has to show the man? I thought, drained the third martini and got up from the couch. I stepped out of my skirt and panties, I let the blouse fall to the floor, I unhooked my hair.

“Two hundred dollars in a new place on Pearl and they didn’t even trim my sideburns,” he said, still looking at the haircut, but then he saw me and his common sense kicked in. His mouth closed. He put down his glass.

“Fuck,” he said.

“My sentiments exactly,” I replied.

14 KAREN

Blindfolded dawn. Sound, then light. A timer clicks, a motor whirrs, and the curtains pull back by themselves. Snow at morning’s door. A pinkish-white dusting on the balcony rail.

The sun inching over the Front Range but as yet invisible behind a smother of low gray clouds. Above the clouds, a red sky turning American blue.

Hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

Something’s wrong. A shiver.

“Jack?”

But Jack’s asleep. Dreaming of Oscars and Spirit Awards.

I sit up and look around the bedroom.

Maybe Youkilis has come in early.

Maybe I’ve overplayed my hand.

No, the alarm box in the bedroom is still blinking. It hasn’t been disabled. No one’s come in.

Is there someone outside? A deranged fan? I have read about such things in French magazines.

I slip out from between the covers, find a pair of Jack’s sweatpants and one of his T-shirts. I pull on the sweatpants, tie the band tight, and tuck in the T. The T-shirt says “Total Loser” on it. Why would someone buy that? It must be an American joke. How long would I have to be in this country to stop feeling like an alien? Did Dad ever get over it? I think of Mork in that Yuma show from the seventies-that was Colorado too.

I walk to the glass doors and scan the balcony and the gravel drive that leads to the road. Chairs. Bird footprints. Snow. Once I would have run outside. Not now. I’ll never see it again after tomorrow. Not until Jefe and Little Jefe finally go to be with Marx.

Hector’s voice: Well, Mercado, what else do you see with that keen cop eye of yours?

A water tower rising like a Wells tripod from the trees. A breeze ruffling the upper branches. A plane on the approach to Vail.

No psychotic stalkers or fans.

Spotlights at the big Cruise estate at the top of the mountain are making a kind of false dawn. Spotlights and a flashing red landing beacon. The helicopter bringing Mr. Cruise will be here soon.

I walk to the window nearest the bathroom and check the garden and Jack’s car. The gate is closed and the car is still in its spot.

There’s nothing out there, I say to myself.

I sit on the ottoman and pull the hair back from my face. On a desk I find some other one-night stand’s scrunchie and make a short ponytail.

What now?

I could do breakfast, but Jack’s TiVo says it’s only 6:15. Too early to get up quite yet.

I don’t want to go for a walk. I don’t want to sit here.

Hell with this.

I lift the duvet, slide back underneath the cover, and sidle my way next to him.

“Jack,” I whisper but he’s out.

His breathing hushed, slow. One of my hairs falls on his face. His nose twitches.

What am I doing here with this lovely boy? The psalmist has words for you. But not me. I’m content to say nothing, to lose myself in the silence, to ripen in your good looks.

Oh, Jack, you’ll never get taken seriously as an actor with that face. You ought to be in Attica judging beauty contests between Hera and Aphrodite. You ought to be out in the earthblack woods, butterflies alighting at your passing, does sniffing the air.

You’re so un-Cuban. So finely sculpted-masculine, poised, confident. Like the statue of David I will never be allowed to travel to see. You can. You can do whatever you like. You’re one of those imperialist Yankees we read about in high school. One of those white men who run the globe. Sure, I’ll meet your friends, Jack, and you can meet mine. Tell Paco he’ll never be a big cheese like you. Tell Esteban that this isn’t Mexico anymore. This is your land, Jack. You beat them all to it. You were here before Columbus slipped anchor for China. You were here first. Flying your Enola Gay. Singing “Jail-house Rock.” Bunny-hopping on the moon. Let me be here with you, Jack, let me stroke those washboard abs, that botticino marble skin, let me ride that long American cock and lick the sweat from your back.

I slide my hand between his thighs but the Ambien and martinis keep him down.