Damian turned to look at Skye one last time before they led him out, still hungry, still desperate for one glance. What he felt, he couldn’t put into words—sadness, loss, a feeling of having disappointed her, and of being let down himself.
Skye kept her eyes trained on her lap.
Damian had loved two women in his life. He had been unable to save one and he’d made things impossible for the other one. In the darkness, when the weight of his isolation sat on his chest like a stony gargoyle, MaMaLu came to him. He felt her presence settle around him. When he closed his eyes, he could hear her singing. He was a little boy again, sitting in church with her, his hand clasped firmly in hers, as angels and saints looked down on them.
Damian realized that MaMaLu had not been alone, that even in her last days in Valdemoros, he had been with her, just as she was with him now. Because when we love, we carry it on the inside, and we can turn on its light even in our darkest moments. The deeper we love, the brighter it shines. And even though MaMaLu was long gone, she was still there with him, in his darkest, loneliest moments.
It’s true, he thought.
Love don’t die.
It gave Damian reason to hold on to his sanity, because without focusing on something, a man can go crazy in solitary confinement. Damian tore off a button from his boxers, turned around in a circle, and flung it in the air. Then he got on his hands and knees and searched for it in the darkness. When he found it, he repeated the process again and again until he was exhausted. After a while, he used his game to figure out the time between meals, and day from night. Sometimes he ran on the spot, sometimes he balanced on his head. He kept busy and he kept fit, and when they opened up the door to let him back into his cell, he surprised everyone with his resilience.
Monique had served no more than a few days in the hole, because Monique was important. He played a key role in keeping the peace. The first day Damian was back in the chow hall, a nervous energy surrounded the whole place. The guards were extra vigilant and the prisoners fidgeted as Damian took the same seat across from Monique. The menu was spaghetti with meatballs, a side of peas, and the ubiquitous Jell-O. Damian forked a meatball from Monique’s tray and put it into his mouth. Monique stopped chewing. His nose had healed, but it was now slightly crooked. The tension between the two men was palpable. Then Monique reached across and picked a forkful of Damian’s peas. He held the fork between them, the peas hovering in a slippery stack of machismo, before shoveling them in his mouth. They stared at each other, taking their time, chomping down each other’s food. Damian swallowed and turned his attention back to his tray. Monique continued eating silently from his. Everyone returned to what they were doing.
“Nice scarf,” mumbled Damian.
Monique was wearing a bright floral scarf around his head and sporting a pair of dainty pearl earrings.
“Bitch please,” replied Monique without lifting his eyes from his spaghetti. “You ain’t ever getting a piece of this action.”
“DAMIAN, YOU HAVE A VISITOR.” A correctional officer stopped by the Release and Receiving area where Damian and Monique were painting a mural.
“Praise the lord.” Monique raised his palms to the ceiling. “Take this useless piece of shit away. He’s been messing with my field of corn.”
“It’s corn,” said Damian, putting his brush away. “Not some phallic representation of corn.”
He followed the guard through heavy steel doors with plexiglass windows. Each door buzzed a warning, opened with a puff of compressed air, and slid shut behind them with a definitive fffphut.