Chameleons like emeralds and limes and saffron and rubies. "Or is that in Madagascar?" His hand slips behind her neck and he inches toward her on the seat. "The dangerous singing forest?" she whispers. And here"- his fingers return to her shoulder, dip along their clavicle-"is the dangerous singing forest." "And here"- he touches the inner crease of her elbow-"is the home of the Nile crocodile with the beautiful speaking voice. "It just goes and goes, all the way from Baghdad to Paris." He circles her shoulder. Everywhere he touches her it feels like it must be glowing, as if he were drawing warm butter all over her skin. And there's this one street." He holds her palm cradled in one hand and traces his finger up along the inside of her arm to the inner crease of her elbow, then up to her shoulder. There's the man with his cart who sold me rolls sprinkled with thyme and sesame every morning and then saluted me like a soldier. In this direction and that direction, there are wide busy sidewalks and apartments piled up on top of shops, men in business suits, women with strollers, street vendors selling kabobs, eggs, fruit drinks. All the main streets run out from this spot. And here is Tahrir Square." He touches the center of her palm. In this section there's the desert, and in this point it's plains. He turns her hands over, palms up, and says, "Now you." He draws one finger down one side of her palm and says, "This is the Tigris River Valley. Her breath goes high and tight and shallow she hopes he can't see her clearly in the car- her translucent skin so vulnerable to the slightest emotion.
She holds his gaze a moment, hears a rush of pulse in her ears like ocean surf. "Right now? In this car?" He leans back his eyes are black marble, dark lamps. "Is this what you mean? Like, if the ocean was here on the side and these knuckles are mountains and here on the back it's Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, West L.A., West Hollywood, and X marks the spot." She traces her fingertips over the backs of his hands, her other hand pressing into the soft pads of his palm. "All right." She takes his hands, runs her finger along one edge. A car rolling down the street toward them fills the interior with light, then an aftermath of prickling black waves.
He leans forward and the streetlight gives him yellow-brown cat eyes. He holds up his hands, side to side as if they were hinged. "Do you have paper?" She looks over the empty sweep of the car's interior. "If you draw me a map I think I'll understand better." “Show me." He looks at her, his eyes darker than the air.
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