Kimmisha Thomas, Contributor

As Dahlia drove up the scenic route into the hills, she was so preoccupied with reliving the last hellish argument with her boyfriend she didn't question where she was going. Her brow wrinkled as in her mind's eye she saw the scene anew. The tastefully decorated bedroom, en vogue, of course, untidy with her copies of Cosmopolitan and Mademoiselle and David's Architectural Digest and drawing tools thrown about; Dave lounging against the doorjamb with his mouth set in that cute little-boy pout, calling her self-possessed and self-seeking and having delusions of self-sufficiency. Dave could be so, poetic at times, Dahlia thought. Outside, not in the least disturbed by this scene, an emerald hummingbird was suckling from the new orange blossoms.

Usually when Dave was in this mood, her mind did not register the argument until after the fact. Usually, its replay, disclosing a quarrel she'd had no idea had occurred until then, would intrude upon what seemed like a perfectly normal day. It was a bad, disturbing habit over which she had no control. After she became aware of the fight, she would float around in a state of bewilderment until it was time to go home and David took pity on her and made everything all right again.

She frowned again as she remembered why the memory of this argument was so immediate and why she was now heading into the hills and not to her upscale job in a New Kingston high-rise. Dave had thrown something and it had made a frightening crash that had jolted her from her preoccupation with the bird.

What had she done? Had she screamed or thrown something, too? No, she had walked out, in her shorty pajamas and fuzzy slippers, to her Beemer. She remembered now that Dave had shouted after her that he had forgotten to add 'craven' and 'childish' to the list. And now here she was, driving into the hills. It felt like she had been driving for hours and she had no idea where she was. The last place she remembered with signs had been Papine.

There were some houses coming into view now, irregularly spaced. Some looked like the houses featured on 'Old Time Jamaica' calendars. Dahlia came to a weathered blue shop and stopped. Just like that, like coming home.

Joan was serving a Red Stripe to one of her regulars when she walked in. Martin and Smith were watching a horse race on the small black and white television in the corner. 'Blouse and skirt!' Martin interjected, crouched comically over a rickety wooden table which he now slapped enthusiastically, 'Black Beauty a' go win again!'

'Win yuh r—s! No haas cyan beat Jumpin Jelly Bean, yuh damn fool!' This assertion was followed by a hiccup; they came from Drunkin Johnson, who up until now had been hidden in the darkest corner of the shop.

Dahlia walked in, sat on a stool at the only window and looked out at her car. She could see her cell- phone lighting up from where she had thrown it on the passenger seat. She was thinking how she couldn't even call her mother and expect to be comforted.

Her mother had this thing about being in Her Correct Place. Even though they had enjoyed an upper middle-class life since her mother had married a progressive property owner when she was 12, her mother had silly notions about Place. How she managed to get married to a man who owned his house and lived somewhere where others did, too, Dahlia never figured out.

That was surely stepping out of place, if anything was. Her mother seemed to feel guilty enjoying the trappings of her relative wealth. She was still more comfortable cleaning house and cooking things from scratch in the kitchen. Mr. Erving (Dahlia didn't call him Daddy) seemed relieved at this. He knew as well as Dahlia did that the neighbours were contemptuously amused at Mrs. Erving's obsequious ways. In her mind, after all these years, she was still a day worker. All she would say if Dahlia called was that she had never trusted that brown skin bwoy and that it served Dahlia right for stepping out of her Place.

Joan was thinking that she was the only one seeing the redskinn'd lady with the light brown eyes, dressed as the ladies on TV did for bed. She wiped her hands on her dress and glanced surreptitiously around to see if anyone else was looking, but the horses were in the home stretch and excitement was high. Drunkin Johnson's head had settled on to his breast. Jumping Jelly Bean's jockey rode her to victory and the men began to prance around, upsetting their stools.

Joan went over to the window. 'Yuh want something to buy, Miss?'

Dahlia's gaze settled on her as if from far away; she looked at Joan as if she were a rare insect that had bitten a hole in her favourite cocktail dress. 'No, I'm just enjoying the local colour.'

The reaction that statement got, you would have thought a gunshot had sounded. Drunkin's head came up and he stared wildly around the shop. Joan's heavy lower lip fell even lower. Martin, Smith and the other two patrons assumed comic poses. Smith's took the cake: his hands flew to his cheeks like those of an offended old maid. Before any of the assembly could comment, Dahlia got up from her seat by the window, walked out to her car and drove away.

Martin found his voice first. 'Just enjoying the local colour,' he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, 'Rhaatid, she tink she a' one damn tourist?' The others merely shook their heads in orchestrated wonder.

Meanwhile, Dahlia was planning just how she was going to tell David where to go. Imagine, after being with her all these years, he thought he could talk to her like this! How dare he call her names?

When they had first met on the UWI campus five years ago, he was as scruffy and gauche as they came. She had come to see that he was yet to declare it, David was as firm a believer in Place as her mother. He thought he was too good for her; yes, that was it! What did they think people were? Pawns who had to be moved because they couldn't move on there own? What about upward mobility? Dahlia had worked hard, studied for her degree and got a decent job. So what if people thought her complexion had spared her the gruelling run of interviews? That was no fault of hers!

As her mind ran on, the fingers of one hand drummed an idle tattoo on the car window. How to tell him off so that she would leave with a little dignity? Oh, yes: she would twist his idea, march up to him and tell him, 'This is not my place.' In the abstract way, of course, as in, 'I shouldn't be here'; not a definite 'I don't belong here'.

Having settled on a course of action, Dahlia turned on the radio and hummed along all the way home.

The house was quiet as she let herself in. When she attempted to throw them on the table, her keys fell to the floor. She bent to retrieve them, then frowned as she realised she was still wearing her bedroom slippers. She must have had one of her episodes, she thought; she should be at work. She glanced at the clock; if she hurried she would be only 15 minutes late. David had obviously gone out, though she hadn't thought to check for his car. She'd tell him off later, if she remembered. She was through the bedroom door before she realised he hadn't left at all.

David had watched Dahlia's car disappear down the hill before he went back inside. She must be in one of those ditzy moods of hers, he concluded; and he hoped she wouldn't hurt herself. She was as exasperating as she was endearing, which was why he hadn't broken up with her yet. That, and the fact that he was living in her house rent-free, and he had payments still owing on his car, expensive choices in female companionship, expensive hang-out spots.

He scowled as he went to the kitchen to wash the breakfast things. He wasn't feeling in the mood for work today, and he supposed he would be late if he went at all. After that date with Elaine she would surely cover for him. He grinned, remembering.

The cellphone David had laid on the kitchen counter vibrated.

''Lo.'

'Hi stranger, you at work yet?'

'Uhm, no. Who is this?'

A merry laugh bubbled over the line, 'Candice, man. Wifey gone to work already?'

Candice, Candice. Oh! Candice, the girl he had met last month at Wendy's. 'Oh, how you doing? Yes, man, she gone out. Why?'

'Well, I'm nearby and you know, I could stop by if you want. Seems like your memory needs a little refreshing.'

So Candice had come over, wearing a mischievous smile and a red knit mini-dress and, from what Dave's practised eye told him, not much more. Some time later, they were enjoying the comforts of Dahlia's bed when an awful scream rent the air and Candice's weight collapsed on top of him. He was still trying to figure out the source

of this rude interruption when he heard Dahlia screeching at the top of her voice: 'This is not her place, damn it! Not her place!' Over and over. The bed became a riotous arena for kicking, scratching and biting, a furious tangle of arms and legs.

One Thursday morning not long after this interesting mle took place, Mrs. Ethel Erving was entertaining her old friend Lynnett in the kitchen. Lynnett had come up from St. Mary where Ethel used to live before she got married. It was a cheerful scene: lemony sunlight, pouring through the windows, reflected brightly from the gleaming appliances and white tiles everywhere. Ethel was settling in for a long sussful chat, serving coffee to Lynnett, when the latter asked an upsetting question, causing the milk jug to rattle against the coffee cup.

'So long I don't hear 'bout yuh bright daughta - how she doing?'

Ethel thought for a moment but saw no reason to lie. 'Dahlia gone a institution a Miami, Lynnett.'

'What yuh sey, ma'am? Yuh mean dat chile gone for more schooling? She don't know too much study will mad har?'

She jumped as Ethel's harsh bark of laughter shadowed her comment. 'Mad yuh, yes. Dat is what happen to Dahlia. Dat no good red bwoy bring woman inna har own place an it go to har head. All she talk bout a' who fo' place dis, dat or the odda. Den she mighta come to, but mi nuh know.'

'Inna har own place!' Lynnett echoed.

- Kimmisha Thomas