“Darling, I’ll be home soon,” the big man whispers. “I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms. We’ll have such a feast. You’ll see.”

Oblivious to his cell, yet not at ease, the big man cups the soap bar shape close to his lips, close enough to conceal, close enough to kiss, close enough to taste. His voice, gentle, firm, soft, sexy, the clearest kind of whisper, comes out clean; the other two men standing together some ten feet away, just beyond the bars, can hear every word. They look at each other. One raises his eyebrows. The other shrugs. They turn their attention back to the speaker.

“Chicken breasts, young and tender. I’ll bake them extra slow and smother them with chili. The turtle beans are thoroughly soaked—they’ll cook quick. The spices in the cupboard—airtight tins and snugly sealed bottles of cayenne, anise, coriander, and chili—are all set for my trusty brass measuring spoons. The big iron pot hangs from its tree, polished clean as can be. I’ve got tomatoes on the sill, full and ripe and ready, and a quart of puree. What am I forgetting? Garlic, a couple of cloves peeled smooth as a baby’s you-know-what, and a sharp blade for slicing. Some crisp stalks of celery—chop, chop, chop under my knife. I’ve got good green peppers, fresh and juicy, two jalapenos, sleek and snazzy, and a pair of plump, perfectly round onions waiting to be double-diced and simmered down. It’ll all come together. You’ll see.

“Would wild rice be too much? Maybe a small bed of linguini. And on the side a fresh salad. Young spinach leaves, cherry tomatoes, a few red onion circles, and those baby carrots you adore, just a couple for crunch. Balsamic vinaigrette, of course—the good stuff.

“I’ll take out the good silver, too. And your grandma’s linen napkins. And those tall thin candles, the white ones with just the hint of vanilla—what do you call them? Tapers? One for each of us. But I get to light them both with a single truck-stop match, and when the flames flicker behind the wedding crystal, the Merlot will look a rich, ruby red. I love the way you lift your chin and smile when we touch glasses. I love the way the angelic ting goes with the gleam in your eyes.

“Oh, but the first taste of the chili chicken—the tender flesh and flavors exploding in your mouth—anise, coriander, and cayenne kissing your lips and tongue. ‘It makes me pucker,’ you always say, crinkling your face so merrily, and small tears peek from the corners of your happy eyes, so that you need to quick drink a gulp of wine. Don’t worry, we’ll have goblets for the ice water. A swallow. Two. And then, I can almost hear it, your, ‘Oh, honey,’ then patting your lips with scratchy soft linen, ‘So good!’”

The man stops for a moment, as if he is listening, as if he is trying to hear, as if something very serious is being said.

“Afterwards we’ll dance.” He nods as he speaks. “Coleman Hawkins’ tenor sax—wouldn’t that be a good choice? It’s slow so we could just sway. Sway together so close, your head against my shoulder, my arms around you, sway, sway, swaying with the lights down low, those slim candles dripping silently a room away, the sax sounds surrounding us, pushing us close, close, closer. Oh, honey. So close. So good.

“When we dance like that your body’s light as smoke. Your eyes hold me while the world swirls ‘round. Tenor sax sounds sift across our skin, covering us, caressing us, urging us to kiss. We’ll wait, though. We’ll wait as long as we can. As if in the shadows our parents and children and pets and neighbors are watching, ready to judge, pencils poised upon official pads. I’m glad I can make you smile, even when all we want to do is fuck. There’s that little laugh at the tip of your tongue. A lilting tease. But your hands show you’re serious. And your kiss makes me crazy.

“Blues, blues, blues. Your clothes come off: shoes, socks, jeans, slow at first, then slower still, when I want fast, fast, fast—I can never get you naked fast enough, but you know best. The panties take forever. You’re so beautiful. The slippery hips. The cutest bellybutton atop your little belly. The softest puff adorning the delta of your mound. When I nuzzle you the gentle scent of summer meadow makes me shiver with want. You lie back on the couch, that fluffy green towel under you, and your legs lift languidly to my shoulders, and your thighs quiver, your flower opens to my lips, your stem trembles to the croon of my tongue. Oh, oh, oh, you say, swooning to Billy Holiday and Big Mama Thornton. Oh, oh, oh, while the sweet calyx of your cunt cups my chin. Oh, oh, oh, to Bo Diddley’s thumping, to Big Jo Turner’s gruff-grinding hug, to Lightning Hopkins’ down home moans. Oh, oh, oh, and rivulets of syrup, slow and hot as molten wax, slip sweetly across your secret star. Oh, oh—oh, oh, oh! A rushing surge of deep-seated, full-bodied bucks, a keening cry, a long low wail, and you open so wide as if to swallow all of me, all of me and nothing else, and your fists firm upon my head force me where I want to go, and your thighs clasp me so tight the word disappears, and there is only, only, only...

“Afterwards that fluffy green towel is so soaked, and your bellybutton is impossible not to nibble, and my palm can’t help but press upon the matted curls of your plump little mound until sturdy aftershocks ripple through your body. A second palm press never fails to bring a second reward. Invariably I wonder how long this could go on—endlessly, I think—but always you urge me up, and we kiss, and this is the sweetest kiss, because you are completely satisfied, and still you love me. Tell me you love me. That’s all I want to hear.

“Okay, okay, I won’t forget the chocolate! Well I know how much you love your chocolate. How about a dish of Starbucks’ Mocha with a raspberry filled chocolate truffle atop and a glass of Frangelico to the side? We’ll take our time. Those candles have life in them yet. We’ll see how slippery chocolate ice cream makes your lips. How tingly Frangelico makes your tongue. When you trace the tickle to my lips, my tongue, I won’t be able to resist sucking, soothing, greedily getting more than my share, but you know I always make up for it; I always give up my truffle; and while you eat it, I always uncover your breasts, and with my own Frangelico-wetted lips, my own ice cream sweetened tongue, I worship your nipples, licking and laving, sucking and nipping, leaving them fattened but fully clean. Don’t worry, I won’t forget the chocolate.”

One of the listening men shakes his head. “God, he does go on. I didn’t know they were allowed to have cell phones. Who’s he talking to, anyway? I thought his wife was —”

“She is and they’re not,” the other man answers. “It’s a bar of soap. Crazy fucker. He carves a bar of soap and pretends it’s a cell phone. Pretends he’s talking to his wife. Day after day he talks to her. Day after day he washes his mouth out with soap, licking it down to nothing but froth. It’s gonna make him sick.”

“He sounds pretty sick already.”

“Oh, he’s sick all right. The doctors say another week his wife would’ve died anyway, but supposedly he couldn’t stand to see her suffer.”

“So he smothered her, right? Kissed her to death.”

“That was his story. And the nurse who discovered them did find him kissing her. Only thing was, they found semen in her throat.”

“God, that is sick. His semen?”

“Ha! You know what? I’m not sure. Wouldn’t that have been a twist? I suppose they must have tested it. Anyway, she’s dead, and he’s here, death row for the rest of his life, with nothing to do but talk into a bar of soap.”

“So he’s not going back into the population?”

“Well, that’s the thing. His two previous cellmates—seriously bad boys, both of them—died.”

“Died?”

“Mysteriously. Asphyxiation.”

“They think he did it?”

“Don’t know. He was there, that’s for sure. And he’s big and strong, and has a history, I suppose, but those guys—huge biker dudes—you wouldn’t think he could take them. Not without getting pretty banged up himself. Not without some major fuss and someone noticing the ruckus. He says he never left his bunk. He says he noticed the guys kneeling by their bunks saying their bedtime prayers—ha ha—and then later some thrashing, like maybe they’d swallowed a bone or gotten a slippery chunk of meat stuck in their throats, but then it stopped, and he thought everything was all right and he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. He passed a lie detector, but then he passed a lie detector about his wife, too.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Observe him. I’ve been doing days for nearly a week now. They’ve decided to put someone on night shift. Eight to eight and you’re it.”

“Yeah, but what am I looking for?”