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STEVEN POPKES The Birds of Isla Mujeres AFTERWARD, IT WAS NEVER the people she remembered, never faces or bodies or voices --even Alfredo's. It was always the wind, blowing from the west side of the island, and the frigate birds, balanced on their wingtips against the sky. They flew high above her, so black and stark they seemed made of leather or scales, too finely drawn to be feathered. It was March, the beginning of the rainy season, and she had come to Isla Mujeres to leave her husband. That she had done this some half a dozen times before did not escape her and she had a kind of despairing fatalism about it. Probably this time, too, she would return. Her name was Jean Summat. Her husband, Marc, lived the professor's life in Boston. She, it was supposed, was to live the role of professor's wife. This was something she had never quite accepted. Isla Mujeres. Island of Women. She sat in a small pier cafe that jutted out into the water, waiting for her first meal on the island. In a few minutes it
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