“Do you have to leave? Maybe we could all do breakfast somewhere,” Kendra suggested.
Until Kendra and Adena had showed up on Sinclair’s doorstep, his plan for the day had included Sinclair and him picking up where they’d left off last night. Maybe a little breakfast followed by more of Sinclair for lunch and dinner. As he watched her twirl one of her locs around her index finger, the way she always did when she’s nervous, he knew she wasn’t ready for that even after last night.
“Thanks Kendra for the invitation, but maybe you ladies should have some time to catch up.” He leaned into Sinclair, and she offered a cheek which he reluctantly kissed before he left, closing the door behind him. He quickly glanced at his pants. The stain that was there had dried and faded, but he remembered.
Worn duffle bags dropped to the floor with a thud. Both Kendra and Adena plopped onto the couch sandwiching her. A barrage of questions bombarded her at rapid speed.
“So, was that Colin Ferrell?” asked Kendra
“Yes,” responded Sinclair.
“Did he stay here all night?” asked Adena.
“Yes,” responded Sinclair.
“So, if he was here all night, and you slept on the couch where did he sleep?” asked Kendra.
“On the couch, too,” answered Sinclair. Both women’s faces brightened with expectation. She could see the question forming behind their mischievous eyes.
“Did you sleep with him?” asked both women.
Sinclair felt like a teenager being grilled by her parents after missing curfew. Tired of answering questions, she sank into the pillows briefly before springing to her feet to head toward her bedroom to change clothes. “No, I did not sleep with him. Look, stop asking me all of these questions. Since you both woke me up…let’s go get the breakfast you were talking about Ken.”
“Hmm, okay.” Kendra’s eyes followed her until she disappeared into the hallway.
Adena agreed. “Yeah, okay.”
The waitress at the small mom and pop diner stared at Sinclair. “Sorry, Hon, what was that again? Chicken and waffles with syrup, grits with cheese, and orange juice?”
“Yes. That’s perfect.” She couldn’t wait for her plate to arrive. This diner always smelled so good. As each waitress walked past, she could smell pancakes, strawberries, syrup. It all made her mouth water.
Kendra said, “Same here, except no chicken.”
“Give me exactly the same,” said Adena.
When the waitress disappeared both women sat closed mouthed and waited.
The cold metal chair only made Sinclair’s interrogation more uncomfortable. She shifted around in her seat for comfort. “Okay, okay. Chance spent the night. We talked. We kissed, and that was it.”
“That was it?” Kendra exchanged a glance with Adena.
“Yes. We’ll get together again and see what happens.”
“What do you mean see what happens? I told you what you should do. He looks good girl, there’s nothing wrong with having some fun while you are here.”
“Yeah, just be careful. You might fall in love.” Adena began to laugh. “Could you imagine everyone’s faces if you showed up at a class reunion with him on your arm?”
Kendra reached over, and popped Adena on her shoulder.
Adena rubbed her stinging arm. “What? I’m just saying.”
“Anyway...” Kendra reached into the tote bag, and pulled out a folder. “So, these are some of the men you matched up with on Blackpeoplemeet.com.”
“What?” exclaimed Sinclair. Okay, both of her friends were single. Kendra always had a man, maybe not for long, but she always had one. Adena, well, she seemed happier with food. Why were they both pushing her so hard?
“Yeah, I set up my own page, and emailed a few men for you.” Kendra spread some of the photos out in front of Sinclair.
She pushed them back toward Kendra. “Girl you are impossible.”
“No really, you should look at these guys. I’ve known you for how many years now, I know what you like.” Kendra scooped up the papers. The waitress set their orders in front of them on the small white table.
“Kendra, I can find my own guys.”
“Yeah. When was the last time you logged on? Probably not since you were in Vegas.”
Kendra really did know her.
“So what. I do it when I have time.”
“So, I’m helping you.”
“What about yourself or Adena? Did you guys set up pages for yourselves?” She pointed her fork at Adena. “When was the last time you had a date Adena?” Instantly, she felt guilty.
Adena didn’t say anything. The chicken wing under her knife was treated to the skill of a surgeon verses Adena’s normal ripping and pulling.
“Hey, if you want to attack somebody…attack me. It was my idea, not Adena’s.”
“I wasn’t attacking her. I was making a point. And the same goes for you, too. When have you had relationship that lasted for more than a few months?”
Kendra’s hand fanned back and forth between herself and Adena. “Neither one of us may be in a relationship at the moment, but we also don’t live 1,000 miles from friends and family. We don’t sit in the house every weekend. We are doing something other than work or at least we like our work. I love fashion, and Adena loves being a teacher. We thought...we know you are lonely.” Kendra’s voice lowered, and a hand covered Sinclair’s. “You don’t have to admit it, but we know you are.”
Sinclair looked at Adena who was still performing surgery, this time on one of her waffles. “I’m sorry Adena. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just irritated.” She began to speak to Kendra, but she waved her off with a hand.
“So, anyway, I narrowed it down to these five, but this one here, Marcus Peters, sounds really good.”
They both looked at Adena.
Syrup running down the fork was captured by Adena’s tongue. “Yummy. The guy not the food. I helped Kendra sort through all of the responses.”
All three women smiled at each other before breaking out in laughter. Adena always knew how to break the tension. It’s probably why she loved her so much. Even when she was being a witch toward her, Adena never would be that way to her.
Picking the paper up from the table, Sinclair had to admit he looked good, if the picture was really him. “Okay, he looks good, but why do you say he is perfect for me?
Adena rattled off his stats from memory. “He’s tall. He attended a Historically Black College. He traveled to Africa. He owns a business.”
“And again, he’s perfect for me why?”
Kendra said, “He’s a black man in Pennsylvania looking for a black woman.”
“And that’s all it takes right?” asked Sinclair.
“Girl stop being so difficult. Just email the brother. Go out, if it doesn’t work…cool. You’ve still got Colin Ferrell.” Kendra smiled.
Adena choked on a spoonful of grits.
“You two are silly. Let’s finish this, and hit a mall or a movie or something,” said Sinclair.
Laughter filled the air around them as they ate and reminisced about days gone by.
Before Sinclair could unlock the door, walk inside and kick off her shoes. Kendra asked, “So, where’s the laptop?”
Sinclair carried her bags to her bedroom, and dropped them on her bed.
Kendra yelled from the living room, “Don’t forget the laptop.”
Adena was stretched out on the couch flipping through the cable stations. Kendra sat at Sinclair’s small dinette table with the notorious papers spread out in front of her.
Sinclair sat her laptop in front of Kendra and walked into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” asked Kendra.
“Grabbing a glass of wine—Pinot Grigio. Do ya’ll want one?”
“Of course,” said Kendra.
“Sure,” said Adena.
“By the way-” said Kendra. “What were all of the purple ribbons about?”
“Yeah,” said Adena.
>
“We noticed them when we were driving here, and every store we went to today had a purple ribbon. Doors. Around trees. Stuck on registers.” Kendra stated.
Sinclair was embarrassed. Heat flooded her cheeks. She didn’t want to explain. It would only add to Kendra and Adena’s already negative opinion of Central Pennsylvania.
“The purple ribbons are because of the rally.” Sinclair softened her voice. “The Klan rally.”
“Oh yeah, we heard about it on the radio driving down. What do the purple ribbons have to do with the those idiots?” asked Kendra
Adena pulled her attention away from the television to look into the kitchen at Sinclair.
“The ribbons indicate that the store or person is not a Klan sympathizer.” Sinclair said from the kitchen.
“We should go and protest their rally.” Adena said.
“That’s all I would need, to be filmed by the news protesting the protestors,” mumbled Sinclair.
“I agree. We should roll up there. The three of us could handle them.”
“Yeah Kendra. We could make up some signs, and walk with them on their route. Sinclair do you know their route.”
“No. I don’t pay them any attention. It feels like there’s a rally here every weekend.”
“There probably is,” said Kendra.
“The news reported they’re not expecting a whole lot of them, and there are some demonstrators against them meeting at the college.” Sinclair said.
“So, we should join them,” said Kendra.
The rallies were frequent. Too frequent for Sinclair’s taste. She remembered the first time she was told the significance of the purple ribbon as she stood in line ordering food. At first, she thought maybe it had something to do with the military. As she paid for her food, the cashier explained.
The thirty-something, brunette cashier’s neck broke out in pink blotchy patches. She looked at Sinclair speechless. “Huh?”
Sinclair repeated her question. “Why are there purple ribbons all through the city?”
“You don’t know?” asked the cashier.
“No, I’m not from here.”
“Oh,” said the cashier. Her complexion slowly returned to its normal waxen hue. The cashier went on to explain everything. The purple ribbon program was begun by college students a few years earlier, and how the mayor and community supported it.
Sinclair was from the south, and she’d never heard of anything like it, but it was effective. Purple ribbons lined every street when there was word of a rally.
“Sinclair, are you listening to us?” Kendra shouted from the other room.
“Sorry! Yes, let’s do it. Let’s join the demonstrators.”
Kendra and Adena were excited.
Sinclair heard her computer chime indicating Kendra had pressed the on button. “Okay, let’s do this first, and then we can figure out what to do tomorrow,” said Kendra.
After handing Adena her glass of wine, she sat another glass beside Kendra, and returned to the kitchen to get her own. She took a sip from her glass, and joined Kendra.
The website popped onto the screen, and Sinclair keyed in her username and password.
G-e-o-r-g-i-a P-e-a-c-h; m-a-n
Kendra and Adena must have thought they were funny when they set it up. Kendra handed her the piece of paper with Marcus Peters’ profile printed on it. “Here, this is his username.”
Sinclair began to type. Hi Marcus. How are you?
“What? Give him something more interesting to read,” said Kendra.
“Look girl, what do you want me to say, take me, now? I’m doing this under protest as it is. I will write what I want.”
With several clicks of her backspace key, Sinclair began again.
Hi Marcus. Thank you for sending the pictures. Your profile sounds really interesting. Do you travel for work or do you just love to travel? I am new to Pennsylvania, and I would love to meet you. .
With a tap of the enter button the message was sent without the approval of Kendra.
Sinclair, Kendra and Adena approached the modest crowd of anti-demonstrators gathered on the parking lot of the local college campus. Dressed in vibrant shades of purple, the crowd stood out against the pristine landscape of the college. Each member carried purple banners, posters or signs with words evoking their feelings.
A man with curly hair dressed in lavender followed by a short purple hued blonde burst from the crowd toward Sinclair.
“Sinclair. Sinclair.” The man waved.
The small blonde waved, too.
“Craig?” Surprise didn’t even begin to cover how she felt about seeing Craig.
“Yeah. Come over here.”
Sinclair steered Kendra and Adena toward Craig’s waving hand.
Craig hugged Sinclair. “Hey, Chance didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Chance is here! “I didn’t know he was coming. He didn’t know I was coming. We just decided last night.” Sinclair pointed to her friends. “Craig, this is Kendra, and this is Adena.”
“Hi.” Craig shook each one’s hand in turn.
He reached for the hand of the blonde behind him. “Sinclair do you remember Bridget?”
“Of course. Hi Bridget.” Raquel probably would not be too happy to know Bridget was hanging out with Craig, unless it was part of some bigger scheme. Who really knew with Raquel?
Craig’s attention veered towards the parking lot. “Here comes Chance.”
“Yeah, you could hear that truck of his anywhere,” said Sinclair.
“He’s had that truck about seven years. It belonged to his father.”
“Oh.” Sinclair said softly as she thought about Chance’s words from the other night.
“He’s got other cars, but he drives that one the most.”
Everyone waited for Chance to join them. Every step closer he made, she grew warmer all over. His gaze locked onto hers. He smiled, and she smiled back. He stopped with inches between them, and kissed her on the cheek.
She wanted more, but it was all she gave him the last time she saw him. The touch of his lips against her skin reminded her of the feel of his legs against hers, and the feel of his hand on her breasts. His warmth next to her as she drifted off to sleep gave her comfort she’d never felt.
“Hi again ladies. Have the two of you been enjoying yourselves?” asked Chance.
Kendra and Adena both watched Chance as he rolled out his banner to show his friends.
Kendra responded for both. “We’ve been having a blast.”
“Good.”
A woman’s voice blared out at them from the other side of the crowd through a megaphone. “Alright everyone. This will be peaceful. We will split up, and march silently on both sides of the street flanking their group. The press will be here, so we need to make sure we conduct ourselves accordingly. Does anyone have any questions about how this goes?”
The long grey hair and the fabric of the speaker’s full-length purple tunic dress moved with each gust of wind. After answering a few questions, she gave everyone last minute instructions, and the small crowd fell in line as instructed.
Sinclair and Chance each carried purple flags. Her free hand held Chance’s. They marched surrounded by friends, strangers, and protestors.
Kendra and Adena couldn’t stop talking in the car about the protest. Chance. His friends. The news cameras. After the protest, they’d called, and sent texts to everyone they knew to tell them to search the Internet for the rally, and watch the news in case the story was picked up nationally. They wanted someone to record them for their own personal records.
Sinclair was exhausted by the time they reached her condo. She showed them the guest room, and the couch, telling them to fight amongst themselves regarding who slept where.
Her friends battling voices rang out through the air as Sinclair changed her clothes and sprawled out across her bed. Finally, she heard Adena say, “I drove, so you get the couch Kendra.”
Admitting defeat, Kendr
a responded, “Okay, but you’re driving out tomorrow, too.”
“Okay,” responded Adena.
Their voices quieted; luggage shifted; clothes rustled, and the voices on the television were muffled.
Sinclair drifted off to sleep.
Her cell phone hummed on the nightstand beside her. She read the words on the screen.
Blackpeoplemeet.com, 12:42 a.m.
Marcus Peters has responded.
Chapter Seven
Sinclair parked her yellow VW bug on the corner in front of Casting Call, restaurant and part-time club, at exactly 8:00 p.m. Although it was empty, she had a hard time searching the crowd for ‘Mr. Perfect’ because there was no light. In place of club design, the owners must have believed darkness, with a few candles and music was all it took to create a club atmosphere.
She checked her watch; scanned the room again, but no sign of ‘Mr. Perfect’. He was late. Sinclair hoisted herself up on one of the barstools, and ordered a drink.
“Mimosa with pomegranate juice instead of orange juice, please.”
“Pomegranate instead of o.j.?” asked the bartender.
“Yes.”
The young Black man dressed in all black except for the white letters on his chest, stretched slightly by the bulge of his belly, which spelled out the word Bartender checked the small refrigerator behind the bar before returning. “Sorry, we don’t have any pomegranate juice, but I have o.j.”
“You know what. Let me just have a beer. Do you have Corona or Heineken Light?”
The bartender rested his large forearms on the bar, leaned forward and smiled. His teeth were just as white as the letters on his shirt. She could tell from the twinkle in his eye that the next line would be a pick-up. Wasted, but attempted. “I can give you whatever you want.”
“Corona or Heineken.” Lean and smile, was that his best flirt move. Now, she was anxious for ‘Mr. Perfect’ to show up. She really was not into bars. Lounges with couches, nice menus, and a nice crowd, yes; but not black boxes disguised as a club.
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