He dreams of his mother.

Her mahogany skin is deeper and darker in the sepia-tone filter that diffuses the cinematography of his dream. Her eyes, deep and wide, sparkle at him like fireflies. Her hair, cut short in the back and curly on the top, seems to glisten as well. She is wearing the nurse scrubs he last saw her in that day. The cuff of her left pants leg has minute drops of blood like an abstract henna tattoo.

In his dream he reaches out his hand, not the hand with the twelve-thousand-dollar watch but his sixteen-year-old self ’s hand. And before he can touch her, she fades away like an instant photo moving in reverse. And then he wakes up with her name on his lips.

The taste of the woman lying next to him waits there too. Waits for his tongue and shame to find her flavor. She turns and throws one finely muscled light brown thigh over his own and murmurs his name.

“Roman.”

It comes out with the solemnity of a prayer. He rolls over, away from her. He knows her stage name, but it escapes him at the moment.

“Hmmm?”

“We getting breakfast?” she asks. They shift in the bed, changing positions until her back is against his chest and her legs are drawn up nearly to her chest.

Roman closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Hmm,” he murmurs. He puts his hand on the small of her back and makes light circles with his fingertips.

“Can we go to Mammy’s? I’m starving,” she whispers. Her name escapes him, but he can see it in his mind. The letters are jumbled, like one of the puzzles in the paper his mother used to like to solve.