Lady of Way

by Rosemarie McCants

  He didn't need to look up when a light shadow quietly fell on his table; his overly aware senses could have picked her out anywhere, without having set eyes on her first. He was aware of how loud his heart hammered, and his mind reeled with dizzying joy as, with a ready smile, he pointed at the seat opposite his. She slid in as she placed her phone on the table, carefully making sure that its screen faced downwards.

  "No chivalry at all?" She asked through her own smile as he appraised her with his eyes. He couldn't help liking her overpoweringly. She has a beautiful smile, he thought, easy to tell it is genuine.

  "It died with the horse carriage," he answered her with pleasurable ease, "And with it girls who swooned at unpretty sights."

  "What unpretty sights?" she put emphasis on the grammatically incorrect word.

  "Blood, dirty, poor people, strong, muscular, adventurous looking men…"

  "Don't they swoon anymore?"

  "No. You would have already, you know…" he thumped his chest lightly, "After I bravely and courageously…" they burst out laughing at the smirk she accorded his well-intentioned joke. Having placed his order earlier, he saw a waiter meandering through the tables towards them with a tray in hand. Lisa was observing the place carefully, but Mark could not read her face to tell whether it appealed to her as it had him. The waiter set the tray on the table and with unassuming courtesy, turned to Lisa for her order, "Black tea," she answered his non-verbal query, “No tea bag, I prefer the tea boiled to blend,” the waiter hurried away with her order as she turned to Mark.

  "Nice place," she said simply, her voice devoid of any awe, such as Mark would have expected from anyone impressed with the place as he was.

  "I'm hurt."

  "You liked it?"

  "I loved it. It has a nostalgic feel."

  "Ah, it’s alright, as long as it serves its purpose," she waved a dismissive hand. Her nails were unpainted and clipped short, Mark noticed. She noticed him looking at them and held her hand out, "You seem interested," she said as she wagged her fingers, inviting him to observe them more keenly. Long, Mark noticed, and slender. An artist's hands. He wouldn't have been surprised if she told him she painted or made pots to pass the time. That is, when she and her friends weren't ambushing innocent photographers in the bush… then walking with them in the dark, all alone… holding their hands…

  He fought a very strong urge to grab her hand and relish the softness. She would freak out, he thought.

  "Nice blouse," he complimented her in an effort to sway his mind away from her hands.

  "Thank you." She gave him a very knowing smile as she withdrew her hand.

  "Goes well with the skirt," he continued.

  "Now you're just paying me compliments."

  "I mean it- I'm not good with colors, but the white on the blouse complements your beautiful skin. I don't know, together with the purple on your skirt, it makes a great combination."

  "Wow, thank you for noticing! Wait- how come you're a photographer who is color blind?"

  "Not colorblind, poor with colors. I work with monochrome photography."

  "That's black and white, isn't it?"

  "It is. Stripping life to its barest."

  "I've never met a black and white photographer before," she shifted in her seat, "Must be hard, working with images defined by light and dark shades only."

  "Not really. The key is to bring out the best in those shades. Perfect contrasts where necessary- shadows, in this case, are essential to a perfect shot."

  "Ah! Made easier by today's tech,” she demonstrated by lifting a hand with thumb and forefinger nearly touching, “Just set your camera to black and white…" she stopped when he raised his hand, fingers splayed, "Permit me to cut you off," he cleared his throat, "There are monochrome cameras, without color filters. For most professionals out there- and even aspiring amateurs and up-comings, they are the best choice, if one can afford them."

  "Surely, they are not that expensive?"

  "Believe it or not, they are..." He hesitated, "A good one will set you back several thousand bucks."

  "Seriously?" She was staring at him in disbelief, "No wonder you refused to drop it. Now I feel awful."

  "That's water under the bridge now. In any case, I can always try taking that picture another day. Now to you. Apart from you know that thing, what else do you do?"

  "You mean apart from protecting endangered animals." She emphasized the last two words.

  "Yeah, one way to put it."

  "What is the other?" She leaned back in her seat, a challenging look in her dark eyes.

  "Bush ambusher." He smiled then burst out laughing, and despite herself, she couldn't help smiling too.

  "Is there such a word?" He asked once he had stopped laughing. She regarded him a moment before answering,

  "Actually there is. I'm wondering… what if you were the one in my shoes, what would you have done?" She asked him.

  "Same, ambushed. I loathe poachers by the way."

  "I'm sure you'll milk that cow to dryness, but," she threw up her hands in mock surrender. He continued smiling as he regarded her. With such a start, the day was going to be great, and his time with Lisa Fellows worth it.

  The waiter was back. On his tray was a small flask, a mug, and a bowl of sugar, a stirring spoon sticking out of it. He set everything on the table carefully and with a final polite bow, having confirmed that that was all, he exited as silently as he had come. Mark watched with interest as Lisa poured the dark liquid, blacker than coffee, into the mug. She followed it by adding in a few teaspoonfuls of sugar and stirred. Task accomplished, she set the mug aside to wait for the mixture to settle as she looked up at him,

  "Mark the photographer," with her elbows on the table, and chin supported with her linked hands, she gently rubbed her lower lip with a finger, "Where are you from?"

  "Three Tulips, west of the state."

  "Born and raised?"

  "Born and raised in- Fatigue." She hadn't noticed his hesitation. Beverage settled to her liking, she picked it up and attempted a tentative sip; finding it to her liking, she settled in her seat more comfortably,

  "Fatigue, interesting name for a town. I suppose there's a legend or myth behind it all," she sipped her black tea.

  "There is. I will tell you know all about it someday, at least the most plausible version that has persisted to date."

  "I thought this was the only time we had… together…" she trailed off with a smile that made Mark very self-aware of his faint blush, which she did not fail to notice.

  "Would you like this to be the only time?" He asked her quietly. Her smile widened, but she remained quiet. To his immense pleasure, Mark noticed that she was blushing too. Silence reigned for a while as each retreated to the privacy of their thoughts where no wish, want, fantasy, or yearning lacked expression. Though their thoughts remained well concealed behind pleased smiles, their bodies betrayed some of those yearnings and fantasies; all it needed was a keen observation of each other to try and determine how much so.

  "It is not busy at this time of day," he broke the silence and looked around him, "Not many customers."

  "It is the slow hour of the day. Mornings, evenings, and the nights are the busiest."

  "Nights? Twenty four hours?"

  "The road that cuts through Sinai Walk joins an east-west interstate a few miles north from here. It’s a favorite for truckers."

  "You're from around here?" He asked her.

  "Yeah, east of here. I have a place tucked away on the fringes of Sinai Walk, though I'm staying with my mum at the moment. Here in town."

  "Um… ah… oh, okay."

  "You're wondering," she observed correctly from his questioning face, "My mum comes once or twice a year, then returns to her homeland. This is the only chance we get to be together."

  "Uh…"

  "Mark," she leaned back in her seat, "Just ask, I don't mind," she leaned back towards him, setting her elbows on the table, black eyes chal
lenging his gray ones.

  "Ah… well…" he still hesitated.

  "Why did you ask me out?" She asked him intensely, "Were you not interested in getting to know me more?"

  "Of course, and you accepted because you're also interested."

  "Well then, ask away."

  "You won't… well, I don't know, mind if I ask anything regarding… ah… your ethnicity?"

  "No," she replied with all the seriousness she could muster, "If you won't mind too."

  "Well, okay… so, where is your mum from?"

  "Here, in the States." She answered simply. His face clouded for a moment with confusion, "You said she returns to her homeland…"

  "Liberia. She adopted the country after falling in love with it, and someone there."

  "Oh. You?"

  "I'm American by birth, as she is and as my father- biological, was. She's a Liberian citizen by marriage to my step-dad."

  "Ah, now that makes it easier to understand."

  "You?"

  "Me?" He leaned back in his seat and looked at her with a smile meant to say that it was obvious. From her look through her steaming mug though, it was obvious that she expected an answer.

  "I'm American. Need I say more?"

  "Your ethnicity, yeah," she shrugged.

  "White," he held out his hands, "Pretty evident."

  "That's your race. Alpine, Mediterranean, or Nordic?"

  "Do those terms mean anything anymore?" He shifted in his seat.

  "I don't think so," she attempted a wicked smile, "Just trying to see how far you can go if pushed. I think in some places they still do, though."

  "Would you change your opinion of me based on them?" He asked.

  "No,” her mug was nearly empty, “To me, they are just terms," she shrugged again, White, black, brown, green… it’s the diversity that makes life interesting, not racial or ethnic labels."

  "True,” Mark nodded, “One great misconception is that interest in anything racial is racist in itself. I am very interested in everything Africa, but at times, I'm forced to tread very carefully or risk having my life ruined due to a slight misconception. It makes me wish the whole human race was homogenous in terms of color."

  "It is," she smiled as she tapped at her temple, "Here." Her face brightened, "My mum shares your sentiments," she said, "She says that in time to come, it will be a homogenous race ruling the earth."

  "Sounds like someone enlightened."

  "We argue, constructively of course, since she sources her information from a very weird book she found in Liberia. She believes it to be factual but…"

  "You doubt it."

  "More than I doubt the currently-known religious books. Anyway, we're free to believe what we want, which brings me to another uncomfortable question. Are you religious?"

  "No."

  "Atheist?"

  "Misotheist."

  "Hmm… interesting." She frowned thoughtfully.

  "Why is it interesting?"

  "Freedom of expression comes with its positive and at the same time negative aspects,” she leaned back in her seat and became very thoughtful, “A few years back, you wouldn't have told anyone you were a misotheist without invoking their wrath." He seemed to mull over her observation, then nodded slowly,

  "But at the same time nowadays you can't freely discuss race as before. I see what you mean."

  "Sometimes, I think there is some form of compromise in human progress, giving up some ideals in order to accommodate others. We can't have everything."

  "What about you, Lisa, which god do you tell all your secrets?" He asked her.

  "Atheist."

  "Your mum, does she… mind?"

  "Ah, she's not your proverbial old black lady who is inseparable from the church, if that's why you're asking. She encouraged me to be intuitive and never ever try to deny my mind the chance to know more."

  "Once again, what an enlightened lady."

  "Yeah, never stick to some belief just because… it has always been so. She encouraged me to probe, seek, and question until my mind was or is satisfied."

  "Lucky you." He sighed. Both their cups were already empty.

  "Your parents, religious? I guess so."

  "They were." He answered quietly without looking at her.

  "I'm sorry," she had noticed the pain behind his averted gaze, "I'm so sorry, Mark."

  "I'm fine, Lisa," he glanced at her briefly, "Let's not talk about that though."

  "I understand Mark." Her facial features betrayed her, though; she didn’t understand.

  "Lisa, I think we're delving into uncomfortable topics just to avoid facing a topic that is of mutual interest to both of us."

  "We can change them. Which topic is it?" Her dark eyes sparkled with interest. Mark took a moment before answering, his eyes serious,

  “Us…”

  “Oh, what about us, Mark?” she whispered, eyes glinting. With much effort, Mark mustered all the seriousness he could, and failed,

  "Well, this morning, when I asked you to spend the day with me, I meant it, especially after last night's…" he paused, "Adventures."

  "Oh. I won't escape the punishment then?" Her meaningful smile threatened to disarm his well-set composure, "What… punishment?"

  "Whichever you've planned for me…" she traced a pattern on the table with her finger. Right at that moment, Mark felt that grabbing and kissing her would have been very right and perfect. His restraint was evidenced by the small beads of sweat that popped on his forehead.

  "I could never ask you to spend the day with me… just to waste it whining… about last night," he gazed at her intently, "I was simply intrigued, and if you can believe… that all is forgiven and forgotten, I would like to talk about it."

  "Talk about…?"

  "Your group, how you ended up there all alone… and…" he hesitated as uncertainty clouded his face, "The fact that I'm enjoying myself immensely." To his delight, he noticed that she was very pleased. With a smile that she could barely contain, she touched his hand briefly, "I'm enjoying myself too," she whispered, "And I'm very glad that I chose that part of the bush."

  “So tell me…” and stop smiling so damn temptingly! “Was I followed and someone gave my position away?”

  “No. I parted the bushes and voila! There was a poacher, poised and ready, weapon in hand. My first impression.”

  “Is that what you do, I mean, is it like a life’s calling?”

  “Protecting wildlife?”

  “Yeah… and the other…” she ignored the implication behind the words and turned very serious.

  “It is a duty, Mark. At some point in the future, I believe, it will be a law. This is our only home if you think about it,” Suddenly, she smiled a very meaningful smile, “Are you a nature person, Mark?"

  "Why, what does that mean?" He was very wary of that smile.

  "Are you like those guys who weep when the wind blows and then sigh, 'Such music in that breeze, it speaks directly to the soul' kind of thing?” More than wary, he was starting to dread it. Lisa continued, “Or the ones who will chain themselves to trees to prevent them from being cut down… you get the gist."

  "No, I'm not. But I love nature, just not that lunatic." He noticed that besides the smile, her eyes had taken on a mischievous look. He suspected it before she even said it,

  "I am that kind of person," it was stated quietly, implicitly.

  "What?" He stared at her. But of course, he shouldn’t have been surprised. The courage she had exhibited in the bush despite not knowing what to expect should have given him enough clues that even chaining herself to trees was nothing.

  "Yeah. I'm a lunatic."

  “You’re not… to me at least. I wouldn’t consider you as such for fighting for what you believe in,” he hesitated, “I would support you.”

  Her mischievous smile was back, “Including the other thing?”

  "The crying because of the wind thing?" He was looking at her incredulously. Surely, such a g
irl with her direct approach to situations just as she had harangued him in the bush… it was likely, he thought as he tried to imagine her in a park, bawling and meting out poetry to the wind. The image in his mind made him smile.

  "You look happy… no, you're smirking."

  "No… I’m not," he paused, "You know what Lisa?"

  "No, I don't, unless you tell me."

  “I believe you can chain yourself to a tree, but bawling at the wind? Plausible but…”