They meet at a fruit stall on a busy but ultimately forgettable city street.

“Only bananas?”

She looks up from where she’s unloading a crate. The woman leans against the stall like something dangerous; she’s clearly a tourist, doesn’t look like anything that would be found around here.

“You want something else, you go somewhere else,” Plumeria says, shrugging.

“No, I think I found what I’m looking for.”

Her smile is serene, but her eyes are hidden by big sunglasses, mirrored surfaces reflecting the world. She buys a single banana and inspects her hand idly when Plumeria passes her back her change.

“Sorry,” Plumeria says, “sharp nails.”

A small red line carves open the back of her hand; just a thin slice, really, nothing to worry about.

“No trouble,” the tourist says, and doesn’t come back for three weeks.

When she does, she’s got a certain rattling in her pocket, like nails, and leans across the stall the same as before.

“You smell like flowers,” she says.

“Of course,” Plumeria answers, and sells her a hand of bananas.

Then Plumeria sees her every day, when selling bananas, or on a street corner as she’s walking home, or out of the corner of her eye when she’s undressing in her room.

“Would you like to get coffee?” Plumeria asks one day, calmly.

The tourist’s mouth is very red, thick with lipstick and smug satisfaction.

“Love to doll, where do you want to go?”

They become regulars at the café, always grabbing a quick cup when Plumeria has closed her stall after the lunch rush. She won’t reopen until the late afternoon, to catch the crowd of commuters hungry after work. She suspects the tourist is hungry too, though not for bananas.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“Here.”

“You’re not. You’re a tourist.”

“Of a sort,” her smile is very sharp.

Plumeria boldly leans across the table and invites her back to her home for the evening. The tourist brushes aside the beads and banana leaves that guard the entrance to her bedroom. Plumeria sits on the bed and waits.

“You live very normally,” the tourist says.

“I’m very normal,” Plumeria opens her arms.

The tourist sinks down on the bed, crawls over to her, takes her face in her hands. She caresses Plumeria’s cheeks, they share breath for a single instance, and then she’s cupping the back of Plumeria’s neck.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” the tourist says.

Her thumb caresses the nail in the back of Plumeria’s neck, hidden by her long dark hair.

“I could be a good wife, too,” Plumeria whispers, “or so the legends say.”

“I could pull the nail,” says the tourist (or rather, the hunter, as they both know she’s not a tourist at all).

“Or you could kiss me,” Plumeria says.

The hunter removes her mirrored glasses, leans in, and gives her a kiss. The nail is forgotten.

(Plumeria does, indeed, make a very good wife).