by Love Belvin
When he saw, like a lame, I wouldn’t respond, he got to the point. “Well… I’m happy to hear your diet includes seafood, so tonight. Although the menu is there on the table, I want to discuss it. I’ve prepared a decadent grouper, marinated in my special sauce topped with tropical fruit salsa that is led with mango.” He kissed his fingers and smiled with closed eyes. “Delicious. Your first course is on its way. I would like to know your dessert choice. My pastry chef is offering chocolate gooey butter cake, key lime pie, white chocolate-pecan bread pudding, and finally, Mario’s triple decker devil’s food cake.”
I felt my face move.
“Ahhhh…” He smiled wide. “I see we have a devil’s food fan in the building. Or am I wrong?” Shyly—stupidly—I nodded, chin to my shoulder. “Excellent! The triple decker it is!”
He took off just as a waiter was bringing a tray of food. The first thing I was served was tasty potato soup, then came some kind of barbecued meatball with melted cheese. Next, a salad that included quinoa and chopped kale with delicious croutons. I was surprised I liked it. Then came the fish, I couldn’t recall the name of. It was so good, I finished it all even though I was full. The diced mango was a hit. I’d never had it before…I’d never had any of this food before. Had never even heard of it until the chef mentioned it, and I read it off the small, personalized menu at the table.
I had to wait a few minutes before having the cake. When I finally did, I was surprised and happy to see how rich and fluffy it was. The chocolate frosting was creamy and the perfect level of sweetness. It was the bomb, but I didn’t have room for it. At some point, the chef was back at the table, smiling.
“What do you think of the cake?”
I was quickly able to find my voice. “That I probably shouldn’t have swallowed the food down as fast as I did so I could fit all the cake in.”
His face lit with a smile bigger and brighter than the ones from earlier. He snapped his fingers to get the attention of one of the waiters who’d been serving me.
“Wrap that to go for her,” the chef ordered. “Anything else I can pack for you? The check and generous tip has been settled by Mr. Spencer.”
What?
I mean… I guess I knew it had, but to hear it mentioned by the chef this way made it all sound so…boss. My tongue seemed to have tied again. To answer his question, I shook my head. No way I could ask for more. This was beyond reasonable.
“Right away, sir.” The waiter scurried off.
“Well, I hope this will not be your last visit with us. It was my attempt to make your time here the most delightful experience. Kindly let me know if I missed the mark?”
Unable to look him straight in the eye for long, because I was so taken by hearing a Black man, who seemed straight as hell, speak so well. I didn’t want him to think I was—well, you know—I was beneath him.
“This was all nice…and good. Thank you, sir.” I hid my eyes again.
“Thank you, young sis. Thanks for dining with Mario, and I look forward to serving you again.” With the same white smile in place, he took off.
Minutes later, I was leaving the restaurant, trailing behind the host again. Even though it was really nice of him to walk me out, it wasn’t necessary. Outside, the driver was waiting with the back door of the limo open. He tapped his hat again in greeting, and I paced out to him with my purse in one hand and the bag holding the cake in the other.
“I trust dinner was exceptional, Ms. Tori.” He smiled.
That name-change made me return one. “It was good.”
I dropped inside and straightened my short dress once the door closed. We pulled off with soft music flowing through the speakers and the back of the car softly lit. I saw a panel with colorful controls I wouldn’t explore. Instead, I sat for the ride with no idea of our destination. The quiet made me anxious. What the hell was I doing? How did I get myself into this…charade? I was not in elementary or middle school, still putting up fronts for Tangi and Raquel. I was almost nineteen, stronger, and far away from those lonely times when I was bullied.
My kicking myself in the ass was halted when the limo stopped. Before the door was opened, I tried looking outside to see where we were. I didn’t have enough time to get a good view before I was stepping out with my purse in my tight hands.
“Someone will be out to see you to your place inside,” the driver informed as he looked around.
We were in front of a huge ass building. Around us, people were bustling inside. Where were we? I wanted to ask, but didn’t want him to think I was panicking. I was and I wasn’t.
“Ahh…” The driver pointed. “Here he is.” I looked in the same direction as him and saw a guy who looked to be in his early twenties jogging our way. “He’s going to take you to your seat. When the show’s over, come out and I’ll be right here. Okay? If you don’t see me right away, just stand here. It means I’m circling the building and am in traffic.”
Instead of speaking, I blinked. The guy was at the limo before I could acknowledge the driver’s instructions.
“Hi. You can follow me,” was all he said before taking off again. My brain had the speed to follow him, but I was nervous about walking too fast. These heels were no joke. I had no idea how women did this every day. “I’m sorry to make you rush. It’s just that the show will be getting started soon.”
Show?
Wordlessly, I followed him inside. The lobby wasn’t anything grand. Clean, decent flooring and the walls were painted with art pieces in different sizes. There was a ticket booth some stood in line for, but we bypassed. There were people all over, some at the bar, some on the escalator, but all created a chaotic energy I couldn’t escape. The guy led me to an elevator that shot us up to a level opening to a carpeted loft with railings allowing a view of a lower level that wasn’t the lobby. Against each railing were single seat leather sofas facing each other. The center aisle of the loft was clear. It was quiet, except for the voices of the people up here seated next to the railings. It brought to mind the upper level of a mall where you have a view of the lower floor.
“You’re assigned to sit here and here,” the guy announced, pointing to four sofas on each side. Each sofa faced the other, one set on the left and the other on the right. I glanced around and saw couples taking up just one side with a small cocktail table between them. “I’ll grab you a drink. Should I card you?” His eyes squinted and mouth twisted playfully.
With wild eyes, I shook my head. “Just water for me.”
I couldn’t think about putting another thing in my body. While I didn’t feel the fullness I had back at the restaurant, my nerves were wild from the suspense of the night. Where was I? What show was this?
The guy took off, and having to make way for an incoming couple, I moved into one of my seats to the left of me. I had four, after all. How could I take up all four seats when there were two views available? I sighed, settling into the cushy leather, happy to be off my feet. They didn’t hurt, but the pressure of being on the balls of them wasn’t something I was used to. The lower level was pitch black, and I had nothing to look at down there, so I people watched.
Similar to Mario, there were mostly Black people here—good looking Black people. I saw a few older white people, two Asian couples, and several who could have been Indian and Spanish. But most were Blacks, a little high saddity, too. No one seemed to look at me strange or pay me too much mind. Most smiled politely, acknowledging me. That wasn’t something I was used to.
Out of nowhere, the lights flashed. I could hear a collective gasp as though the people were excited. Then the loft darkened completely until, in rhythm, the lower level lit and music began to play. All around, people turned into the glass railings giving view to downstairs. With the flashing of a light, a dark-skinned man with locs appeared. He splashed red paint against a giant-sized wall canvas. His swing was athletic, passionate…in rhythm with the music. He stepped toward the canvas aggressively, observing it. A feminine voice began to bel
t lyrics. To the right of the artist was a silhouette of a woman singing live. Then, on beat, he stepped away, going back to a paint palette I didn’t see until now.
A man’s voice sounded, blending with the woman behind the opaque lit screen, but I couldn’t see him. Staying on beat, the artist continued to throw paint, sometimes different colors, other times he’d work on stroking the paint into a shape. Turning on my left hip, I crossed my leg, locked into the show. I found myself hypnotized in no time, wondering what dude was painting.
“Sorry it took so long,” I heard whispered on the other side of me. It was the guy who walked me inside and to my seats. He placed water with lemon and a cheese, nuts, and crackers platter on the small cocktail table in front of me. It looked good, but no way was I eating. I was more concerned with what this art was making out to be. “I’ll be back around in case you need something more.”
When he left, my eyes caught the empty chairs across the aisle. They were mine. But no way could they be an equal or better view than these on the left. I glanced down at the artist, who was now bouncing as he threw paint onto the canvas in a similar fashion to how I did on a speedball punching bag. It was cool as hell. That’s when curiosity got the best of me and I looked to my right again. Out of nowhere, there was an explosion of a reaction from the people on that side.
Quickly, I stood to my heeled feet and took lunges to the other side. As I plopped down on the leather, single sofa, it took no time for me to identify a Black woman with a floppy afro, slapping paint on the same size and color canvas as the man on the other side. She wore large earrings, a mini leather skirt with a matching sleeveless, cropped shirt, and was barefoot. Her seashell anklet was visible even from my proximity. That’s when I recognized the silhouette of the male singer, behind an opaque screen to the left of her. I watched the female artist’s piece, which I suspected was an exotic bird on a naked Black man’s shoulder, for a few minutes before going back to the left side.
The guy’s painting had progressed and I was able to identify the makings of a Black woman, naked with her palms to her face. He’d done a lot in those few minutes I’d been away. He was now working on her hair. In the strains of her afro, he fingered words like career, love, misogyny, babies, family, racism, leadership, accountability, intimacy, and so on. When he finished with acceptance, I was struck with a connection.
Acceptance.
Did all women humans—Black women humans—want that? Some days I did. There were times I was tired of sticking out—or trying to fit in. And I didn’t mean just at Blakewood. It had been all my life. Growing up, there were more whites than Blacks, and although there wasn’t much of a class distinction between the two, by demographics alone, Blacks were in the minority. This meant, going to school, I had to conform to the norms of that culture. Racism wasn’t as big of an issue in my city as it had been in other places in my county, but it was present.
Then add to being Black was me being weird. Boys hardly liked me, and if they did, it was for one reason. Even some of the girls—mostly grown women—wanted me for the same reason. It was a huge part of the reason I hated humans. Equally, I’d developed an aversion to both male and female human species. Before Paul, I couldn’t remember a childhood crush. Since that horrid period, the only resemblance to attraction or crush I’d had was with my bestie, Ragee, something I soon learned was inappropriate and not authentic at all. That brought me back to my original stance on humans. They were nasty or mean, or nasty and mean, and never accepted me for me. Then again, I had no idea who the hell I was, other than a kick-ass fighter.
The slowing of the music pulled me from my wild thoughts. I hated when I sat in them. The man and woman singers were synchronized in notes, obviously ending the song. The male artist was putting the finishing touch on his piece, which was his name. When the song ended, so did the art piece, and birds were released all of a sudden, flying from one direction to the next, making the crowd go crazy. A loud round of applause rang out in the place. It scared me at first, then snapped me into etiquette and I clapped, too.
Seeing them, I wondered about the other piece happening on the other side, and I crept over there. The woman finished a young, fit man with an exotically colored bird on his shoulder. The man was Black, and appeared my age. She didn’t color him in, leaving the black canvas for his skin color, but she used white paint to create his muscular contour. Just like the male artist to my left, the image looked so life-like.
As though via a switch, the lower floor blackened as the upper level lit with modest lighting. When I saw people leaving their seats, most praising the shows, I knew it was over. I also knew I’d had a good time. I knew nothing about art, but enjoyed every moment of this experience. I managed to fall in the line forming to leave. On the way to the escalator where all were headed, I peeped the guy who escorted me up. He waved me out of line and we took the elevator down. He walked me to the door and told me where my limo should have been waiting.
Just as the driver explained, I waited out in my heels at the curb for a few minutes before he pulled up in the dense traffic. He hopped out to open the backseat door for me. I dumped my body inside, making the first thing on my agenda taking off the high heels. I exhaled hard and with relief when I did, stretching my arms on either side of my long frame. The next few minutes into the commute were spent with me in that position.
That was until I remembered the cake from Mario. I now had room in my belly for it. When I dug into the bag, the silver plastic fork and napkin were trill to my eyes. I ripped open the lid of the container and devoured the cake, inhaling it until the last of the cream on the fork was smeared on my tongue. Then I tossed everything into the paper bag and sat back and observed all around me. It would be my last time in a limo, so I should take it all in.
In the darkness of this fancy ass ride, I couldn’t stop smiling, and neither could I keep still. I tried highway watching to find a singular focus, but it didn’t work. My mind kept rewinding back to the lights, the music, the artists, the colors and birds…the food. That shit was banging! This was how rich people lived. Right? They had to. Black chef, Black artists, and Black singers performing Black music.
Wow!
This was some culture shock for me, but in a good way I’d never experienced. I threw a few air-jabs, unable to keep still. Then I grabbed the sides of my head and curled over my lap. Would I ever experience something like this again? Was it okay to feel…happy? I couldn’t remember the last time something excited me. Then his face flashed through my mind, and my body instantly warmed and heart raced. Adrenaline flowed through my veins similar to how it did before a fight. I felt…hyperaware all over. Glancing down at my legs, I clapped them, closing them tight and resting the weight of my legs on the side of my feet. It seemed like something girlie girls would do.
That’s what he liked. I knew he did. He dated Aivery Cooper. She was as girlie as they came. That was his type; not…me. A stream of gratitude poured over me. The only other guy who looked out for me without wanting anything in return was Ragee. He always hooked me up. Always treated me like a good human.
Is that how Ashton sees me?
I chewed on my lip as my forehead tightened. Now would be a time to have a cell phone handy, but I didn’t. I wondered where he was right now. It was late, but old people’s hour of late. I sat up in my seat and reached for the buttons in the center console. When the glass separating me from the driver began to roll down, I knew I’d selected the right one.
“Hey…” I called out. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cell, would you?”
The door was agape when I made it to the third floor, apartment D. There only seemed to be four on the top floor of the dorm—that looked more like an apartment building—and this was at the far end of the hall. When the limo pulled up, I honestly thought maybe this was the wrong place. I’d never been on this side of campus. It could have been for staff and not students from how garden apartment’ish it looked. But when the security guard asked fo
r my ID and who I was visiting, I knew I was at the right place. But this being Ashton’s dorm was still a question. Either way, I was back on campus and could easily get back to my dorm just fine.
Slow music flowed through the crack of the door. Did he have company? Was Aivery in there? Maybe this was a mistake. With a shaky hand, I rang the doorbell. Doorbells. They have doorbells? We sure didn’t. Then again, we didn’t need them for our small rooms. It would be annoying to hear over your head when the door was just feet away.
“Come in!” boomed through the door and into the carpeted, quiet hallway.
I glanced around behind me before pushing the door open. This was so not how I planned this. The first thing coming into view when I click-clacked inside was a small, rectangular room with a fancy lamp, a chair and a half because it was slightly bigger than a chair and smaller than a loveseat, and a huge fish tank. In the corner was a stereo system, playing old school music. It was…a vibe in there.
“Back here.” I recognized that baritone and closed the door.
As I continued down the dark hall, catching the frames on the shadowy walls, the music faded. This place was nothing like the room I stayed in. My heels clacked along the way until I met a lit opening. I realized it was the living room on the right with the kitchen directly across to my left. Ashton sat, stretched out on a sofa shirtless, with one leg extended on a loose ottoman. An ice pack sitting on his leg as he faced the large television posted over a fireplace. Around the living room were lit candles, but even with those, I could tell this wasn’t a romantic setup because of the background noise in here. It was football.
