I have lost myself in visions of New Orleans, voodoo and Cafe du Monde. I imagine a lover waiting for me at the station, ready to pick me up and meet me for the first time. He will take me to the Bienville Hotel on Decatur street and we will make love for twenty-four hours. We will lie in a big bed with soft blankets and soft pillows. He will be soft and gentle; he will smell good; and there will be no rape scene. Nobody will climb up on top of me, against my will and force himself on me. I will not have bruises after the act. Neither the neighbors nor the children will hear my screams. No one will wonder if the police should be called. The room will look like a garden of marigolds, sunflowers, begonias and verbenas; the sun will stream through the window and warm our bodies, generously, kindly. No one will try to convince me of anything or try to purge their guilt. No one will say, “you like it like this.” They won’t have to. Because inside me, I will know.