A U.S. CUSTOMS OFFICER NAMED MELINDEZ WANTED TO KNOW why I didn’t have any luggage. I pointed to my neck, showed him the blood on my collar. The shirt was black, but he could still see it. “Girlfriend,” I said.
He looked closely. Got halfway up from his seat. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed.
“I told her, ‘That’s it. You pulled that psycho stuff on me for the last time. I’m outta here.’ ”
“And you just took off?”
“Went right to the airport.”
“Left all your things?”
“Wasn’t worth it, man.”
“Local girl?”
“Hell, no. Boston Irish.”
Officer Melindez was unmoved.
“I figured, that’s the way you want to be, you can just vacation by yourself.”
“Oh,” he said, as if everything suddenly made sense, and handed me back my passport.