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posters you might find free at a travel agency—Mediterranean ports with painted fishing boats, whitewashed domed chapels on hills, colorful houses built into cliffs over the sea.
    “This heat is
insupportable!
” he says in greeting.
    “Why don’t you take a day off, Ahmed? Go to the beach? It’s only an hour away.”
    “Oh, too much work.”
    I look around. “I’m the only one in here.”
    He grins. “Exactly. It’s hard work keeping you in constant communication with the love of your life.” He looks back at his screen. “Anyway, that young, crazy part of my life is over.”
    I laugh, trying to envision Ahmed as young and crazy, then settle down at my computer and open my e-mail.
    Wendell’s sent me another photo. He must have sent it during the pool party. The photo is artistic, even though it was taken on his phone—a red rose blooming in the foreground with a blurred pool scene in the background—wet skin and bikinis and sparkling hair and hot dogs and shiny cans of soda and a green lawn. He’s written a few lines.
Sorry about the change of plans, Z. I love you. I can’t wait to see you. Love, Wendell
.
    Nice rose
, I write. I’m at a loss for what to write next.
So
, I begin.
How long’s your hair now?
    I’ve wondered this recently. If hair grows at the rate of a centimeter a month, Wendell’s should be nine centimeters longer now, practically down to the middle of his back. He wears it in a braid, like the men of the Ecuadorian Andes, where he was born. Of course he’s sent pictures of himself over the past year, but never a backview with the braid. It’s these little things I’m curious about, these small surprises.
    Do you still use that cinnamon soap? Do you still go through a tin of Altoids a week?
    This is shaping up to be the world’s most boring e-mail. I take a deep breath and write about what I really want toknow, what I’m circling around.
Someone dropped a CD of guitar music into my bag. It’s weird. I wish you were here already to talk about it. Have you
—I hesitate, let my fingers rest on the keyboard, imagining his reaction to what I’m about to write. He’ll sigh, close his eyes, shake his head. And he won’t answer my question. I write it anyway.—
had any visions of a mysterious CD?
    He doesn’t like when I ask him to tell the future. Call it what you will—fortune-telling, divination, prophecy. For years this power scared him, but last summer he found a teacher in Ecuador who showed him how to use it. And for a year Wendell’s been practicing. Some people would find this thrilling, but he insists it’s more a curse than a gift. He’s promised he’d warn me if he ever saw Layla or me in physical danger. But in relationships, he refuses to let his visions get involved. They’re more likely to screw things up, he says. I can’t help but wonder if he saw something in a vision that made him freak out and decide not to live with me and Layla.
    Biting my lip, I add,
Or visions of anything else this summer?

    At home, Layla’s at the table making mobiles out of bits of glass and pebbles and old metallic chocolate wrappers. My
fantôme’s
guitar music is blasting so loud, Layla doesn’t even hear me come in. “Layla!” I shout.
    “Z!” She looks up and turns down the music. “Did you find out who your admirer is?”
    “If you mean the
fantôme
, then no.”
    She twists a piece of wire with her pliers. “Hey, you know what this music reminds me of?”
    “No idea.”
    I’m expecting her to quote Rumi, or recount a weird dream, but instead she says, “The music your father played me that night on the beach.”
    I blink. “Does the music jog your memory, Layla? Help you remember anything else? Like his name? What J.C. stands for?”
    She snips a strand of wire with scissors and twists it around a pink pebble. “Mundane details like names didn’t seem to matter that night … with that music and the ocean. Remember, I was drunk on the moon’s