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out Charles would be in Bali at the same time he was in Hong Kong, he took his best friend up on his suggestion
     to tag on a short vacation at the end of his trip. Randall snickers and yawns again. “You’d love it—except, of course, for
     the spiders.”
    “Ha, ha. Very funny.” Through the window, thin fog curls like smoke in the cone of light under the street lamp. The wind carries
     the sound of a train whistle, and Lena is astonished at how the warbled echo travels from the station five miles below and
     beyond their house. “There was a big black spider on your pillow the other day.” She flinches with the recollection and glances
     around the room.
    The silence between them is so loud that Lena taps the handset to see if they are still connected.
    “I’m ten thousand miles away, Lena, with more on my mind to worry about than a little spider.”
    “I’m sorry… I know you’re busy.”
    “Call the exterminator. Have him spray outside the house, the windows, and the attic. That should take care of it.”
    “Do you think it was some kind of omen?” Some kind of omen that means the opposite of wealth and good luck, she wonders.
    “It was a spider, Lena. I’m my own omen—
I
make the shit happen.” Randall laughs. Not the hearty laugh that brushed her cheek those Sunday mornings they used to sleep
     in, nestled eye to eye, full of gossip and plans for what they will do—play poker, visit Tahiti, romp in the sand in the south
     of France—when Randall retires. His laugh is cool and distant; the one reserved for clients, the one that makes him appear
     noncommittal, more than competent. Controlled. “Have you made any decisions?”
    “Decisions?”
    “You heard me. I won’t put my life on hold until you figure out how good you’ve got it.”
    Months after his promotion, in a trendy San Francisco restaurant, Randall spoke to Lena of how being the only black man in
     the inner circle, where no one made less than a seven-figure salary, made him watch his every step. The double stress plagued
     black men, he told her, especially where the fraternity of black power brokers was limited and fragile.
    “Success is a game—aka the black man’s burden—act white, fight white to get to the top. Then fight, any way you can, to prove
     that you deserve to be there.”
    Lena watched Randall, with barely a blink or a breath, while he described, not for the first time, the need to fight stereotypes
     that could turn a black man into something less than whole and accusations that lacked substance: forgetting where one came
     from and selling out; smart but not smart enough, the expectation of failure. The pressure he felt from all sides was palpable,
     but he remained determined to do whatever it took to be successful.
    At the next table, a man held a match to his cigar and puffed madly until the chubby stick of tobacco caught the flame. Lena
     inhaled the strong, bitter scent that reminded her of Saturday night chats with John Henry when she was a teen, reminded her
     of the puffs he let her take when Lulu wasn’t watching.
    “I won’t be around as much as I’d like. I know how much you do. And I appreciate it.” Randall took a slender, black box from
     his jacket, slid it across the table, and opened it. Couples to the left and right stared when Lena gasped at the large, radiant
     yellow diamond attached to a delicate, narrow platinum chain. The stone glistened in the candlelight in that way that only
     a clear diamond can. Randall stepped behind Lena and fastened the necklace around her neck while the same couples applauded
     and asked if it was their anniversary or her birthday.
    She turned and pressed her lips to his, the promise in her eyes of more than that to come. “Thank you, sweetie. I love you,
     and I’m behind you one hundred percent.”
    Randall raised his glass in a toast. He waited until she finished her wine and poured a little more into their glasses and
     reminded her that none of the