Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  Desdemona rose and walked across the dining room and living room to the hall leading to her bedroom. She removed her baton and her wallet from her bag, heading back to the dining room table to set both on the table with an arched brow. “No,” she said definitively as he eyed it.

  He visibly swallowed over a lump in his throat.

  She reclaimed her seat and set her chin in her hand as she placed her elbow atop the table.

  “Okay, so I am a teaching assistant while I am studying for my PhD in creative writing,” he said, tapping the eraser end of a pencil atop the workbook. “I have been a tutor since undergrad, and my hourly rate is twenty-five dollars. I’m only available when I’m not in class or teaching.”

  Desdemona reached out and clutched his hand to stop the drumming.

  “Nervous habit,” he explained, easing his hand from under hers.

  “Why are you nervous?” she asked, watching him pull his iPhone from his back pocket.

  “No reason,” he said. “I always have a lot of energy.”

  Desdemona remained quiet.

  “The areas of study you will be tested on are mathematics, reading, writing, science, and social studies,” he said, looking at her through his glasses. “To gauge which areas we need to focus on and just how much time you will need before you try for your GED, I have an assessment test for you to take.”

  She nodded.

  He rose and set a booklet in front of her with a sharpened pencil. “What’s the last grade you completed, Ms. Smith?” he asked.

  “I heard you selling ass at night. Can I get a freebie?”

  Desdemona closed her eyes at the memory of being teased at school when word spread that she was tricking. The day she walked into English class and felt the stares and giggles of her classmates before she took her seat and finally saw the cause for their amusement on the chalkboard. “Desdemona’s price list. Blow job $10,” she had read as her heart pounded hard and fast, and her stomach was tight with embarrassment. There were most tricks listed. More humiliation.

  The laughter had burst and filled the room. Slurs and insults had been hurled at her.

  Desdemona had jumped to her feet and run from their laughter—their lack of understanding that she did what she had to do to survive. She had pushed past her teacher entering the classroom and raced down the hall at full speed with her tears racing down her cheeks even faster.

  She never returned to school again.

  Desdemona closed her eyes against a wave of pain that hate still breathed inside of her. “Uhm, I dropped out in the tenth grade,” she said, forcing a smile and opening her eyes.

  Push through, Desi. Push through.

  “Okay, so, here’s the test,” Loren said, setting a workbook, a sharpened pencil, and a notepad in front of her. “You have two hours to complete all sections. Do not open the test until I say to begin.”

  She eyed him as he walked to the opposite end of the table and took a seat. “So, this test will cost me fifty dollars?” she asked.

  He looked around the grand apartment and then back at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Is there an economic hardship?” he mused, biting away a smile.

  Dimples. Two of them. Deep.

  He was a cute kid.

  “I’ll figure it out,” she said, picking up the pencil.

  He tapped on his iPhone. “Begin,” he said.

  Desdemona nodded and traced her fingertips across the top of the table before releasing a breath and tearing the tab on the booklet. She looked across the large space to the painting over the fireplace. She could almost envision pride in the depths of their eyes.

  Several times during the test she looked up to think and noticed Loren looking pensive himself as he sketched away on a drawing pad. The quiet was often interrupted by the turning of a page or the swift back-and-forth motion of his large eraser. The time flew by far too quickly.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Pencil down,” Loren said.

  She looked up at him just as he did the same. “I think I may make you rich trying to pass the test,” she admitted, her voice soft but still filled with her awkwardness.

  She hadn’t felt so out of sorts in years. More like Desdemona and less like Mademoiselle.

  I don’t like it.

  Loren came down to take the test. “I’ll score it this evening and call you with the results and my teaching plan for you,” he said, before setting a card before her. “This is the website for the GED, and I want you to sign up for an account. It will let you enroll for your testing when you’re ready.”

  Nodding, she slid the card under her baton before she rose to her feet and walked down the length of the table.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She stopped and looked back at him, her surprise clear. “What?” she asked.

  Loren picked up his book bag and began sliding his supplies back inside of it. “I’m sorry. I saw a sadness in your eyes and I was just checking on you,” he said. “It would have bothered me all day—maybe even longer—if I didn’t at least check on you when I saw your sadness. So how are you?”

  Desdemona looked away from him, finding his stare unnerving. “Sad,” she admitted, surprising herself.

  “Why?” he asked, coming down the table to pick up his sketchbook.

  She held his hand, stopping him from closing it. “Is that me?” she asked in wonder, taking the sketchbook out of his hand.

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  The sketch was so realistic, picking up every nuance of her face. Her frustration at this moment was clear. As was her sadness.

  “You can keep it if you want,” Loren offered, taking it back from her and tearing the page free to hand over to her. “My girl would act up if she knew I was tutoring you anyway.”

  Desdemona stroked the edges of the page with her thumbs as she held it. “Why wouldn’t she trust you?” she asked. “Have you given her reason not to?”

  Loren zipped his backpack and hitched the straps up his arms with an incredulous face. “Me? Definitely not,” he said with a laugh.

  Desdemona shifted her attention to something she was familiar with: sizing people up. For the majority of his life, he had given more attention to his education than women. So much so that he was unaware of his looks and his appeal. “Listen to what she asks of you and give it to her if you’re able. Her jealousy will fade, and if not, she has more issues then you’re required to handle,” she said, setting the sketch on the table before retrieving her wallet and pulling out the cash she owed him from her wallet.

  “Sounds like good advice,” he said as he walked across the room to the foyer.

  Desdemona followed him. “Thank you for helping me right a wrong in my life,” she said, handing him the fifty dollars plus a tip.

  “And is that why you’re sad?” he asked, with those eyes on her again.

  She gave him a half smile, looked down at her feet and back up at him. “I regret dropping out of school,” she admitted.

  He gave her a warm and toothy smile. “No worries. It’s never too late to right a wrong,” he said, before turning to walk out of the condo.

  Desdemona caught the front door before it swung closed and peeked her head out to watch him walk down the hall as he whistled without a care in the world.

  * * *

  “I can’t do this!”

  Desdemona flung her pencil across the room and covered her face with her hands.

  When the room remained silent, she split her fingers and looked at Loren calmly standing before the whiteboard on an easel that he’d brought to help tutor her. He looked unbothered as he stared at her through his spectacles with his hair in cornrows going back, emphasizing his high cheekbones and slender face.

  She felt silly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, raking her fingernails through her mass of blond-streaked curls. “But I feel more stupid than I did before.”

  He nodded as he put the cap back on the dry-erase marker, leaving behind the al
gebra on the board to come and stand beside where she sat on the sofa. “I won’t lie to you; we have a lot of work to do if you want to be ready by January,” he said. “You were weak in all subject areas—especially reading at a seventh-grade level. We could slow it down and you take the test later.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head as she refused him.

  He fell silent.

  It had been two weeks since she’d taken the assessment test. Two weeks and four tutoring sessions. “This is humbling as hell, Loren,” she said.

  He nodded in understanding. “What’s your plan?” he asked suddenly, crossing his arms over his chest in the orange Polo shirt he wore with fatigue cargo shorts.

  She looked past him to the sun just beginning to set in her views. “I want to go to college,” she said, filling the silence.

  “Cool.”

  She looked to him. “Because I’m older?” she asked.

  “Nah, because you are already living well and you still want what some people take for granted,” Loren said. “What do you do?”

  Sell sex.

  “I own a clothing boutique,” she said, giving him her half-truth.

  “Dope.”

  “But I want my education,” she added, her voice determined.

  He removed his glasses and locked his eyes with hers. “And that’s the dopest thing ever, Ms. Smith.”

  Desdemona. My name is Desdemona.

  “How’s your girl?” she asked, rising from the sofa to walk over to the kitchen. She pulled two bottles of Pellegrino bottled water out, closing the fridge door with her hip.

  “I took your advice,” he said.

  “And?” she asked as she handed him the drink.

  “Things are better.”

  “Good for you, kid,” she said, reclaiming her seat, pulling on her glasses with her free hand, and dragging the mathematics workbook back onto her lap.

  “Close your book,” he said, before taking a deep guzzle of the sparkling water and setting it on the low-slung modern glass-topped coffee table of hand-forged iron, with bronze finished end caps.

  “Why?” she asked, even as she did as he said.

  “You’re too wound up. You’re thinking too much,” Loren said, coming to stand before her and extend both of his large hands. “Come on. On your feet. Time to unwind.”

  Desdemona eyed his hands and then cut her eyes up to his face. “Are you serious?” she balked.

  “No, not at all. Not hardly ever,” he said. “And you? Way too much.”

  “I’m too serious?” she asked, pressing her fingertips to her chest.

  “Laugh more and you’ll live more,” he said, clasping his hands together before he did a two-step.

  “Trust me, I laugh,” she said. “Just not with you.”

  “Let’s change that,” he said, extending his hands once more.

  Desdemona stared at him, ever aware of the way her heart pounded in surprise. With Loren Palmer, the monotony had been broken. “How are you able to be so happy all the time?” she asked.

  “I am forever thankful for the lessons and the blessings,” he said with a carefree shrug. “The lessons are in the lows and the blessings in the highs. Both are necessary. Both serve a purpose.”

  “Find the good in everything?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “You’re young and idealistic,” she said.

  “Good word usage,” Loren said.

  Desdemona tilted her head to the side and eyed him. “Really?” she asked, unable to stop her chuckle.

  “What?” he asked. “That’s my job.”

  “I knew the word ‘idealistic’ before I met you,” she countered.

  He bit his bottom lip, causing the soft flesh to dimple, as he looked away from her for a few moments and then returned his attention to her.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “The person who talks to me and the person who struggles to grapple with reading and algebra are not the same,” Loren said. “I would never guess by looking at you and talking to you that . . .”

  “That I’m ignorant?” she asked, her voice soft as she eyed him.

  “No,” he asserted firmly. “You’re not ignorant. Just unschooled.”

  Desdemona gave him a soft smile. “I am an observer. A mimic in a way. I have learned over the years to do and say the right things, but I’m tired of the façade. The pretense. I want to truly be everything I appear to be.”

  Loren walked over to the board and reclaimed the marker before turning to look over at her, his eyes reflective. “So how do you feel?” he asked.

  “Hopeful,” she said, feeling joy that spread a smile across her face and a warmth across her chest as she looked away from his approving eyes and down at her studies.

  * * *

  Desdemona covered her mouth with the back of her hand as she yawned while answering some sample social studies questions Loren had given her to complete.

  “We need a change of view.”

  She looked over to Loren standing before her windows with his hands in the pockets of his slim distressed jeans, which he wore with a vintage basketball jersey.

  “People pay a high price for that view,” she said, reaching for her glass of wine to sip before setting it back on the coffee table.

  “Does this place have a gym?” he asked, turning to face her.

  “Yes.”

  “I think ten minutes of cardio will shake things up.”

  She arched a brow. “You’re free to go. The gym is on the third floor. You can use one of my guest passes. But I’m docking your gym time from your pay. I’m not paying you to work out, little boy.”

  “Not my gym time. Yours.”

  Desdemona looked disapproving. “Make it make sense, Loren,” she said.

  “You’re getting bored and yawning. I thought a little run on the treadmill would wake you up so we can stay focused on getting you ready for your GED test,” he explained, crossing the room.

  “I’m focused,” she said.

  He quickly reached out and snatched her workbook from her lap. “What did you just read about?” he asked.

  I don’t know.

  “Exactly,” he said at her continued silence.

  She gave him a begrudging smile before she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I have a treadmill in one of my extra bedrooms,” she said. “No need for the gym.”

  Loren’s eyes shifted down the length of the hall to the other half of the apartment before resting back on her where she sat on the sofa. “You’re going to trust me in another part of this huge place besides the living area and the guest bathroom?” he asked, his voice amused and falsely shocked.

  “I’m not worried about you, young man,” she said, giving him a full smile as her eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Loren held out his hands. “Finally,” he said. “I did notice you finally stopped carrying that little stick.”

  As Desdemona rose to her feet, she quickly dipped her hand inside the top of the dress and withdrew her retractable baton from beneath her left breast. “It’s always around even if you don’t see it . . . and it’s not that little,” she said, flicking her wrist to extend it to its full length with a snap.

  Loren’s eyes widened comically behind his glasses. “So, I have every right to be slightly offended because I would never do anything to make a woman feel unsafe. Definitely down for the #MeToo movement,” he said, making a power fist.

  Desdemona scratched her brow and closed her eyes as she laughed a little.

  “But I have lots of women in my life that I care about—girlfriend, family, and friends—and I’m okay with y’all feeling protected. Some of my brethren are knuckleheads,” he continued. “But I’m not.”

  She retracted the baton and tossed it onto the sofa. “Don’t worry, kid,” she said, walking past him to the hall. “I don’t even need it to beat you.”

  “That’s insulting,” he said dryly from behind her.

  She glanced back at him over her shou
lder. “My apologies, Loren,” she said, teasing him by sounding as if she hardly meant it.

  “Let’s see who can run the longest,” he said.

  Desdemona fully turned to face him, leaning against the hallway wall. “A challenge. Interesting. What’s to win?”

  “If you beat me I will give you two free hours of tutoring,” he offered, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “And on the slim chance you beat me?”

  “You pay me double for two extra sessions,” he offered.

  Desdemona squinted at him. “Either way I get two extra sessions,” she said.

  “Exactly. It’s a win-win for you because it’s my job to push you as hard as I can to reach your goal,” he said. “It’s my job to help you be the best you can be. You deserve it.”

  “Why do I deserve it?”

  He frowned in disbelief. “Why don’t you?”

  “Find the good in everything, huh?” she asked.

  “I see the good in you.”

  And that one little statement of assurance struck a chord within her. It touched on every insecurity, every bit of loneliness, every single bit of fear she felt being alone in the world. It was touching to just have her goodness seen and acknowledged. “Thank you, Loren,” she said.

  He clasped his hands together and rubbed them. “You ready to do this?”

  “Honestly? No.”

  He chuckled.

  “Let’s meet in the middle and I’ll just pay for two more sessions, regular rate. Deal?” she asked, extending her hand.

  He took it and shook it firmly. “Deal. Now let’s get back to work.”

  Desdemona led him back into the living area, surprised that the kindness of this stranger motivated her even more to reach her goals.

  * * *

  Desdemona couldn’t sleep.

  She lay in the middle of her bed with her arms open wide and her naked body sandwiched between bright white fifteen-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like cool hands on every spot of her body. Her six pillows were soft and full—and the only things joining her in bed these last five years. Those and her vibrator.

  Am I crazy to be celibate?

  Sex was hers; to be had and sold.

  Why am I lying here horny?

  They were plenty of consorts who were skilled and willing to have her and to please her.