The lights in the library keep going down on me.

People look like the food in front of them in the market. A butcher chopping a pig's head. Um, can I please just have some cherries?

Fish fish fish, sting rays, ice. The striped shirt of the fisherman like a hipster with his cigarette, showing us the fish he caught in the plastic bag, but not interested otherwise in offering or taking anything more from my Senegal friend and myself. My friend hangs over the cement of the dock and points, "Look!" There are all these big fish in groups. I yell out, "Schools!" He tells me I have pretty hair and asks what's wrong after I look at the ocean moving back and forth in itself for too long. The Spanish disapprove. Religion and conversion surround me and I am in a sea of moving water hitting up against stone.

My friend tells me he lived in one of those boats in the winter for a month. He asks me if I know how to swim, to not be afraid of him. I am his amigo, his mejor amigo.

But I believe no one in this place.