Cafe Romance

by Curtis Bennett

Kurt decided to chime in. “You know, you could have been kissed every day and every night of the week if you had not left me. I practically begged you to give me a second chance. Still, my pleads fell upon deaf ears. You said my efforts were ‘far too little, far too late.’

  “Just the mere fact that you walked out on me broke not only my heart but nearly my wallet. Believe me, it wasn’t easy living a two-salaried lifestyle on a one-salary income, Leslie.”

  Her eyes searched his face, as if they were begging for his forgiveness and understanding.

  “If you knew you were going to be on the East Coast, why didn’t you call and let me know so we could have hooked up? I mean, I know we’re not officially together. But I would have taken time out to see you.”

  Leslie sat up straight and licked her dry lips. She decided to come clean. “Kurt, after our last get together at my sister’s house, I thought that I was the last person you would want to see again. You know, this is very painful for me too. Still, at least we can be friends.”

  Kurt leaned back in his chair and looked at her probingly. What if she was telling the truth? What if nothing really happened between her and this Qwamie guy? And what was all of this ‘at least be friends stuff?’

  Inside he felt confused and as conflicted as ever.

  Leslie seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts and it saddened her.

  “Please say something, Kurt.”

  In a hushed tone, he said, “Look, what you do is your business Leslie. So just forget it. I’m sorry I even brought the subject up.”

  “Like I said, nothing happened, Kurt. You can believe me or choose not to. That’s on you.”

  Rising up, he reached down into his pants pocket and pulled out a thick wad of one hundred-dollar bills, he remembered. He quickly siphoned off three of the crisp bills and handed them to her. She bit her lips but said nothing. He continued, “Look, this should take care of the lunch tab, pay for your cab and get you back to the air terminal.”

  “I was hoping that you’d take me back to the terminal.”

  “I would love to but I have to attend to other matters. Have a nice day, Leslie.”

  “Please don’t go away like this!” she softly pleaded. “I still love you. I’m just not in love with you anymore.”

  Hearing this, he paused, turned, and faced her again. In a steady voice he said, “You know something, Leslie? I once thought the sun rose and set with you. But somewhere along the way you changed. You became independent and self-centered. Like I said, have a nice day.”

  And that’s the way Kurt remembered his last meeting with his wife months earlier. After selling the house and collecting the first installment of his lotto windfall he dropped out of the workforce and nearly out of sight. He wanted to travel the country, reflect on his good fortune and plan ahead for the future. Since he did not relish flying and detested the thought of motel hopping along the Interstate highway system by car, he decided to see the world from a different viewpoint.

  Passing by a RV dealership one afternoon, he thought he’d check the place out and see what the world of recreational vehicles had to offer these days. It did not take him long to decide that, baby, this was definitely the way to go. He would trade in his small camper for the big time.

  Two weeks later, he found himself embarked upon a six-week cross-country tour in both the United States and Canada in his newly purchased luxury motorhome. There were times he wished Leslie had been there with him to share in his travels and adventures. Traveling was one thing. Traveling alone was another. But as far as he knew, she had other things on her mind. As for him, she had no clue that he had become a millionaire. And that’s the way he wanted it for now.

  After a month on the road, Kurt began to long for a more structured life and a more socially active one at that. By week four on the road, he seriously considered returning to the workforce. Once his mind was made up, he began to surf the Internet and came across a job in Tampa, Florida. After his arrival and initial interview, he was hired.

  The job could not have come at a better time for him. He knew he had to get away from New Jersey and all the publicity and all the notoriety of being a millionaire and now he had his chance. But he was beginning to learn that being wealthy wasn’t all sun and fun. As a humbled and caring citizen he gave generously to numerous charities, a hundred grand total to date, but there seemed to be no end to the procession of organizations, both public and private, which constantly approached him for a grant or financial assistance. To keep charities and persistent news organizations at bay, he bought a beeper, opting to forego a cell phone. At least, for now.

  As for the world he decided to leave behind, only his lawyer, stockbroker, accountant, and beloved grandma knew where to find him. And though he walked out on Leslie at the airport, they did speak a few weeks later, for business purposes, at which time he gave her his new cell phone number and told her he’d be traveling across country. It was during this brief conversation the word divorce was brought up.

  Where did the time go? Yvette thought, having taken the day off from work. It was her plan to get as much cleaning done around her new condo as possible. Later she would shower and style her recently cut hair. For once, she had a night to look forward to.

  A childhood friend, Antwan Morrison, had invited her out to dinner that evening. The two met while working part-time at a retail store during their college years. At five-nine, Antwan was a well-dressed African-American with a laid back, easygoing country style. He hailed from rural Valdosta, Georgia but just before he entered high school, his father transplanted their family to Florida for better job opportunities. Though well versed in life in the fast lane, Antwan was a country boy at heart. He had a warm country smile and an abundance of country charm. And was country cute, Yvette always thought.

  With a few hours to kill she sat down in her favorite Lay-Z-boy recliner and grew thoughtful…thoughtful of past boyfriends, past hurt and pain and the reason why she wasn’t anxious to get involved romantically.

  Sporting a twenty-six inch waistline, and looking every bit a youthful twenty-six, Yvette had come to know the effect she had on older men, whom she preferred dating, but also the advantages of dating much younger men. Juanita once told her that younger men often sort out attractive older women for enlightenment and the challenge, and to prop up their sensitive egos. On the flip side, older men preferred younger women whom they could pamper and spoil and be seen with. It was also rumored that younger women revitalized older men in a way that reaffirmed their sexuality and self-worth. Also, older men were usually more financially established and more willing to share their time and their money with their trophy women. But it never bothered her that Antwan was younger than her usual pursuers. That’s because he was not the youngest she had went out with. This distinction belonged to Clarence Collins, a local barber and heartbreaker from her old neighborhood.

  She was twenty-seven years old at the time, and he, twenty-one and as confident and as cocky as they come. The relationship was a mix-match from the onset. Yvette was into jazz and the cultural scene. Clarence was into tattoos, hip-hop, gangsta rap, and club hopping. Realizing that the relationship was one of convenience, she eventually gave him the boot, the union having lasted less than three months. So at odds the two were Yvette vaguely remembered kissing him once.

  Things were different with Antwan, though. Antwan was mature and seemed settled. He was thirty, divorced, manly and as charming as they come. But she considered him just a good friend, a friend she enjoyed being around and occasionally going out with. But no, he was not her Mr. Right.

  As for Mr. Right, she once thought it was Frank ‘Silky’ Goodman. An import from the northeast, Silky was an older outgoing man, a great conversationalist, and popular in the neighborhood. But he was also a man of worldly experience and worldly vice. Warmhearted and affable, Silky was a natural charmer and fulltime womanizer, in every sense of the word. If Silky had a weakness it was women. A real dapper kind of guy, bea
utiful women worked on Silky like a potent drug. In return, he made love as though it was his only mission in life. And boy could he turn a woman on. Like most good things in life, his seduction and lovemaking skills became well known, mostly by word of mouth. With his handsome looks, charming smile, and deep pockets, women of all educational, cultural and social backgrounds flocked to him knowing that within his deep penetrating eyes there was an appreciation, a proclivity for beauty and excitement, along with the promise of a good roll in the hay. Still, no woman ever touched Silky on an emotional level. He would not allow that. Yvette was the one exception.

  In many ways, she turned his world inside out. Silky had rarely sustained a relationship beyond a few months. Being a player, he never allowed himself to get emotionally attached to his paramours. It ran contrary to his self-serving belief system. Then Yvette came along and changed all of that.

  In time, Silky began to feel something he had sworn he would never feel for a woman - love. And for a short while, he straightened up his act. He ceased his womanizing, cut down on his partying, and cleaned up his French. No, it wasn't love at first sight for Yvette but over the ensuing months she took the plunge.

  Later in their relationship, she discovered that Silky was having a secret and torrid affair with a woman known around town as Miss Renee 'Hot Stuff' Vasquez, a local hospital receptionist, who thought she was all that, and more. And for the most part, she was. At twenty-three years of age, the mother of one was a former Miss Puerto Rico beauty contest winner, and current part time swimsuit and lingerie model.

  A divorcee, Renee fit the role of boy toy quite well. She had those dark seductive Latin eyes, a warm tropical smile, and a voluptuous body to die for. She was also cunning and manipulative. She was known to keep at least three sugar daddies, at any given time, on her manipulative lease, and quite satisfied too. The woman never lacked for material possessions. Word around town…Silky was her favorite sugar daddy…her main man. Not only did he keep her well dressed in the best clothes money could buy, he kept her, ankles to ears, in expensive jewelry, and her purse lined with crisp Ben Franklin’s. For Yvette, it was becoming a profound and recurring event in her life, falling for men who were incurable womanizers and users.

  Understandably, she had grown weary of men who were not as in love, or as committed, or as trustworthy, as she was in a relationship. Tired of the changes Black men constantly took her through, she considered crossing over, and for a short while, dated a white musician.

  He was an alto sax player named Sylvester Maxwell Rogers, the III. He was a man who loved his music… both contemporary and traditional jazz. And he was crazy about Yvette. The two met at a local nightclub, a nightclub he was performing at one autumn night with his five-piece band and the two hit it off from the word go. On a weekly basis, they enjoyed the cultural scene, which included concerts, poetry readings, museums and local art shows. They also did the romantic scene: quiet walks along the wide half-crescent shaped bay under starry skies, candlelight dinners, and riding horse drawn carriages under moonlit skies. And, of course, they hit the party scene, hopping from one club to another. The two had lots of excitement and fun. They even talked about the future, their future.

  When they found time to make love they made lots of it. Max was a caring and attentive lover, she remembered. He made her respond emotionally and sexually in ways her Black lovers could only imagine. No man before or since ever made her shudder on the heated battlefield of lustful and unadulterated sexual indulgence as he had. No man had ever made her cry out in pure ecstasy as he had. Not once! This man did and repeatedly. Though well hung, what she liked best about him was that he could talk her into having an orgasm. Sweet talk. Dirty talk. Domineering talk. He was well versed in all.

  “What’s my goddamned name?” he’d ask her, as he’d sink himself deeper and deeper inside her burning orifice. Once she said his name, if she could, he’d say, “Now baby, tell me how sweet is my game?” Then she’d reply, as though it was scripted, “Sweeter than any black cherry you could ever hope to find and taste.” Then he’d say, “Damn right! Now tell me the rules of my game?” Again, she would reply, “Lick it, stick it, then deep dick it.”

  Not missing a beat, he’d add, “Damn right. That’s how I handle my business.”

  Usually this response would come about as she reached her climax or he reached his. The man lived for the moment he could pin her between his mattress and himself and his oversized bedroom ego. And over and over, she’d find herself lost in his world of passionate and domineering lovemaking. “Yeah, baby. Now, tell me again. What’s my goddamned name?” he’d say to her in an authoritative tone. And again, she’d attempt to utter his name, but was usually too far-gone to complete it.

  Then one day Sweet Daddy Max, as he preferred to be called, arrived at her apartment to tell her he was going on tour to Japan, the Philippines, and Australia. Both dreaded the upcoming separation. In the end, they were happy to have left the other with enough fond memories to last a lifetime. It was a good thing, too, since neither would ever lay eyes on the other again.

  With better things to do than to sit around feeling depressed over old relationships, Yvette gazed down at her watch and realized she needed to ready herself for Antwan’s arrival. She would continue her introspective analysis of her men folk some other time.

  After a refreshing glass of spring water, she returned to her bedroom and retrieved her evening attire. She found the dress easy enough, at the front of her closet. Lifting it gently off the hanger she draped it against her front and walked around like a French model, with a slight provocative swing of the hips. Then she thought, Perhaps I’ll play screen legend Dorothy Dandridge's Carmen Jones tonight – sexy, bold and quite sassy.

  Slipping into the short dress she zipped it up with difficulty. Damn, how age seemed to bring added weight, she mused. Just the same, she made a mental note to order another box of weight lost formula. There was no way she was going out in this tight fitting dress. Not tonight. Besides, she did not want Antwan hanging around any longer than he had to after their date. There was just something about attractive women in tight fitting clothing and men’s arousal level.

  With less than an hour to get ready, Yvette returned the outfit to her cedar closet and pondered her next choice. She eyed it quickly, decided this was the one, and put it on.

  Standing before the full-length mirror, which hung on her bathroom door, she inspected her eveningwear from head to toe. Wearing a newly purchased silver lace slip dress, without the benefit of a slip, which, for as long as she could remember, she had never acquired a penchant for wearing, she adored herself, especially her legs. Yvette was a woman in tune with her sensuality. She knew she had been endowed with a shapely pair of legs and thought there was no shame in flaunting them, even teasingly. She felt that if rock icon Tina Turner, who was in her fifties, could sport her curvaceous legs uninhibitedly in public, so could she while in her thirties.

  Earlier that day, she had styled her long brown, slightly auburn frosted hair, in a French bun. But after a second and third appraisal, she decided that the hairstyle just did not go with the dress, so it was back to square one, for the third time. It was not easy being a woman, she mused. Few men ever appreciate what a woman goes through to look her best for them and herself. What it takes them two hours to put on, most men duly admire and compliment to no end, though given the opportunity would proceed to rip off in less than six seconds. So, what do men know? What do they care? Anyway, there she stood, once again in front of her closet, wearing nothing more than black designer stockings and a black bra and thinking that she’d have to start from scratch.

  Shuffling through other recently acquired purchases, she finally settled on teaming a powder keg blue satin embroidered bustier with a pair of narrow velvet Capri pants that produced an independently strong-yet-feminine statement. The shoes she selected were light blue open toe pumps with bow. Crystalline teardrop earrings hung elegantly from her perfectly s
culptured ears. She looked as stunning as any European princess with crown jewels.

  Dressed and ready for her Mr. Wonderful to show, Yvette lightly perfumed herself. She had begun to privately refer to Antwan as Mr. Wonderful because their outings together never rose above this level of enjoyment. Not that she wasn’t appreciative of him, or didn’t enjoy his company. She just wanted to have more than just a wonderful time once in a while. She desired something along the lines of spectacular!

  Mr. Wonderful arrived promptly, as he always did, to dutifully escort her to dinner. It was another typical outing for the two. Dinner at the Harbor Inn, which served a deliciously broiled seafood platter, a quiet stroll along the bay, and a quiet game of putt-putt. And for the umpteenth time he would tell her of his plans to open a series of tailor shops in the area, with a government backed small business loan. It was something he had wanted to do for the longest time.

  “I’m telling you, Yvette, my business is going to be the bomb!” he exclaimed, trying to pass his enthusiasm onto her.

  “That’s wonderful, Antwan,” she replied, her voice reflecting a mild interest. “But mine is going to be the bomb!”

  Later, the two returned to the well-lit entrance of her condo where she gave him a friendly peck on the cheek, and thanked him for another wonderful time. By ten thirty that evening she was back in the comforting surroundings of her bedroom, and her loose fitting robe, preparing for another day on the job. It was fitting that before closing her eyes her last thoughts were of Antwan and whether or not he was, in a quiet calculating way, trying to become her elusive Mr. Right. There were some very noticeable things about his mannerism lately that let her know that he was looking at her from a different perspective. This excited her in a way though the notion of getting seriously involved at this point in her life frightened her to no end. If only she could be certain about Antwan. If only she could be as sure…