As I return a few phone calls on my office phone, my cell phone buzzes with a text message from Marcia.

  Plans for lunch?

  I think for a moment, then type, “No. What’s up?”

  A few seconds later I get a response: Meet me at the corner of Euclid and Moreland at 11:30.

  I stare at my phone. My first thought is that something is wrong and that she can’t wait until the end of the work day to call all of this stuff off. My stomach starts to bubble with anxiety. In the seconds that follow I wonder if I should agree to meet her or not. I could be overthinking this, I remind myself.

  I punch “OK” into my phone and hit send.

  I don’t receive any more texts after that one. Instead, I am left to count down the minutes until I leave the office. By 10:30, I am wound pretty tightly, so I roll my chair back to see if Ran is in his cubicle. Thankfully he is.

  I explain the text messages to him and ask him his take.

  “You know her better than I do. What do you think it’s about?” he says.

  “I don’t know. Part of me thinks that it’s something bad.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  I shrug. “Well, she works across town, and she texts me out of the blue asking me to meet her at the corner of Euclid and Moreland.”

  “So she knows you work in Little Five Points,” he says, his intonation flat as he considers this. “Are you sure it was her texting you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t speak to her on the phone—at least you didn’t say that you did.”

  Now I’m starting to get nervous. “No. She just texted me, and I texted her back. Are you thinking that maybe it was her boyfriend texting me from her phone?”

  “Hold on, before you get worked up. Have you guys ever texted each other before?”

  “A few times.”

  “What kind of stuff did you text?” he asks.

  “You know. Stuff like ‘how are you doing’ or ‘thinking about you.’ Stuff like that.”

  Ran arches his eyebrow, kind of like The Rock, and says, “So you’ve been putting your feelings into your texts?”

  I hadn’t really thought of it like that, and I am embarrassed to admit this. I lower my head instead.

  “I guess the question you have to ask yourself is if she would have this stuff still on her phone and her boyfriend be around to actually read it.”

  At this point I am starting to think that I might be on the verge of getting jumped by a jealous boyfriend—or worse. “Shit!” I utter under my breath.

  “Chill, Chuck. We don’t know for sure. My motto is to not worry until you have something to worry about.”

  “Is that one of your Zen sayings?” I ask, exasperated.

  “Why? Does it sound like one?” he says, laughing.

  As the clock ticks slowly to 11:25 a.m., I rise from my desk. I lean over to Ran’s cubicle. “Dude, I’m going down to meet her—or whomever.”

  “Hold on,” he says. He types on his keyboard and finishes an email before saying, “I’m rolling down there with you.”

  “For real?”

  “Dude, best case scenario I get to see this woman you’re losing your shit over. Worst case scenario, you have backup just in case this guy is on some street shit.”

  I can’t begin to express how relieved I am knowing that someone actually has my back on this. I have managed to scare the hell out of myself with the possibilities of what could happen, but knowing that there’s someone who could jump in, if necessary, gives me a reassurance that is hard to put into words. I know I will owe this dude majorly going forward.

  We reach the corner right at 11:30 and start looking for anyone walking around suspiciously.

  “So you see her?” he asks, looking in each direction.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know what her boyfriend looks like?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, just keep your eyes peeled for anything.”

  I nod, the knot in my throat so hard I can barely swallow.

  Then a car pulls up to the curb. It’s Marcia behind the wheel.

  “It’s her,” I say, relieved.

  Ran cranes his neck to see her. When I open the door and sit down in the passenger seat, he leans in. “I’m Ran. I was just headed to grab lunch and figured I’d wait with my boy until you got here.”

  “Hi, Ran. I’m Marcia. Thanks for keeping him company.” She looks back at the oncoming traffic. “Nice meeting you,” she says.

  I close the door and roll down my window. “Thanks, dude,” I say.

  “No problem. By the way, I’ll cover for you if you get back late, but don’t forget we have a 2 o’clock meeting in the conference room.”

  I nod. “I owe you one.”

  He chuckles and turns to walk away.

  Marcia leans over and kisses me quickly, and within seconds she is headed toward I-20.

  Marcia wastes no time pulling into a multilevel parking deck and driving up to the seventh level and parking in a back corner. During the drive I started to tell her what had crossed my mind before she arrived, but I thought better of it. Instead, I am reflecting on the thing she said when she picked me up: Remember what you promised me? Any time I need you, you would be available.

  So now here we are, camped out in this parking deck, and I have my seat lowered all the way back. She has crawled into the backseat and is lying low with her legs spread and parted in my direction. As I lie on my side, my shoulder pushed into the cushion of the passenger seat, I lean in and taste her.

  “That’s it, baby,” she says, rocking her pelvis back and forth, brushing against my tongue and then my nose and then my tongue again.

  She reaches for my hand and begins sliding in my fingers, as she rubs herself with her free hand.

  “Eat that pussy like you want it,” she moans, her voice intense and controlled.

  I dive in and give it all that I have. My jaws are becoming sore and the awkward position of my body has my side aching, but I’m determined. I want to hear her scream so loudly they can hear her in the ticket booth down on the bottom level of the garage.

  Suddenly, I feel her body jerking in stiff staccato movements. “Yes, right there! Right there!” she screams, and then she roars like a lioness and her entire body goes rigid. “Shit! Ooh wee!” She runs her hands back and forth over my hair, as her body begins to slowly relax.

  I smile. I don’t speak, though. She doesn’t like for me to say a lot. She likes me to speak through my body, and I can’t tell if that’s just a way of her making the moment less personal or if she actually has this preference in general.

  “I want you to fuck me good,” she finally says.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I respond, my confidence level at an all-time high.

  “But not now,” she says, easing away from me and pulling up her panties.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yep. I need to get you back to work. And I have to drive across town.”

  “That shit can wait,” I say. “I’m so hard right now that if I sneezed, I’d cum all over this car.”

  She laughs. “Then you’ll cum hard tonight when I see you.”

  “You’re serious,” I say, the intonation in my voice falling. “No reciprocation?”

  “Later tonight, Chucky.”

  “A handjob?”

  “Anything you want tonight, it’s yours.”

  I am still sorting this out in my head, when she opens the back door and hops back in the driver’s seat. By the time I wrap my mind around what just happened, we are exiting the garage and headed back toward Cool Empire.

  “You okay?” she asks when we turn onto Moreland Avenue.

  “I’m good,” I lie.

  “I have always wanted to do that. You just don’t know.”

  I slowly smile. “So that was the first time you ever did that?” Not that I had ever done that either, but still it is cool that we shared a first together.

  “Definitely a first. And the shit was good!”

  The male bravado part of me smirks, like “Yeah, I’m a champion!” These words rest just behind my lips, never to be uttered, but, dammit, they are there.

  When she drops me off in front of the office building, she leans over and kisses me deeply. “Make sure you drink your electrolytes, because when I get to your house tonight, you’re going to need them.”

  I nod. “Will do.”

  When I get out of the car, Marcia leans toward me and says, “Chucky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank you. I’m serious, baby. Thank you.”

  I smile as I close the door.

  When she pulls away from the curb, headed back to work, I stand at the front of the building for a second. There are probably a thousand things that could cross my mind: Was it silly for me to worry about her boyfriend? Should I have just rubbed one off in the parking deck to ease the ache in my pants right now? Would next time be even wilder?

  I could think about any one of those things. It would only be logical.

  Instead, I can only think about one thing: I might have eaten for lunch, but I’m still hungry.

  7

  Joy in Repetition

  Marcia arrives just after seven. She is wearing a light cotton dress that hugs every curve of her sexy frame. It rises high on her thighs, and her legs look absolutely amazing. Her heels add an extra booyah effect to the entire ensemble. I think back to what Ran said earlier about what a looker Marcia was. If he were to see her now, he’d probably slap me on my back with the pride that only a married man could do for one of his remaining single friends.

  “Have you been waiting for me?” she asks coyly.

  “You have no idea,” I respond.

  I have prepared us a light meal, but I am not inclined to touch the food. At least not yet. There’s still some unfinished business from earlier.

  I take Marcia by her hand and guide her toward my bedroom, where she drops her overnight bag on the floor against the wall. I dim the lights in my room and turn on the lamp by my bed, which I have replaced with a blue light bulb that casts a mellow glow over the room. I start the music on my iTunes playlist and allow the music to fill the room through the speakers on the dock.

  I sit on the foot of the bed and lie back, crossing my hands behind my head.

  “Strip,” I say. “And take your time.”

  Her eyes grow large for a second as she takes in the authority with which I have delivered my command. “Yes,” she responds.

  She begins to move her hips slowly, rocking to the beat of the song, which in this case is Zo!’s “Make Love to Me,” a sultry ten and a half minute ballad that features the seductive voice of Monica Blaire. Marcia sways sweetly, her right hand gradually working its way to her left shoulder, carefully removing the strap there. She continues moving her body, almost like a belly dancer moving in slow motion, her other strap coming down so that she is able to peel the dress down her body, revealing her smooth skin an inch at a time. Eventually she is standing before me in only her matching turquoise panties and bra, the heels holding together the look in such a way that I am already at full attention.

  For a moment, she dances for me, and I feel like I am the most important man in the world. Even in the slow movements of her body, there’s an intricacy in each outstretched arm, in each turn of her legs, and in the way that she closes here eyes and dances as if she and I are the only ones in the entire universe.

  Her hands ease up her back, unloosening her bra. She catches it quickly, holding it to her chest, her body still rocking to the beat. She opens her eyes and looks directly at me. I smile, and she smiles in return.

  Then the bra falls to the floor. Her hands rise to her breasts, taking them tenderly (as I imagine I would) and squeezing them lightly, her fingertips easing to the ends of her nipples.

  The smile on my face grows, and my entire body tenses with anticipation.

  She then places her hands on either side of her waist, slipping her fingertips beneath the thin lace of her panties. She sweeps her hips even wider, as she eases the fabric down her hips, her thighs, her knees, her calves, and then onto the floor, where she lifts her foot, catching the garment on the heel of her shoe and kicking it softly onto my chest.

  Now she stands before me completely naked, save the heels. And she is still dancing.

  I am mesmerized by her body in motion. She is a work of art, nothing like those dancers we got for Dizzy’s bachelor party. Those were girls who twerked and made it clap for a living. Marcia, on the other hand, is a woman who is focused and content to perform for an audience of one in a way that transcends the possibilities of anything that could occur at a club where men ration out one dollar bills like Wonka’s golden tickets.

  Marcia is moving like she wants me—and me alone. This boyfriend, Von, doesn’t exist in this room, in this universe that she is creating for her and me.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” she whispers softly, her body still riding the rhythms of the music.

  I have been waiting for this request since she dropped me off at work. And I have been going through my mental database of all of the wildest and freakiest desires I could imagine, but all of that goes out the window now. I just want her—however I can have her. I respond, my voice a resonant rumble beneath the kicks of the bass drum in the song, “Do what the song says.”

  “Yes,” she responds, her smile both sweet and deliciously wicked. “I will definitely make love to you with intention and purpose.”

  She eases me out of my clothing, piece by piece, kissing me with the revelation of each bare body part. When she straddles me and takes me in, it is not the violent fuck of our initial interactions, but the sweet movement of a woman yielding more than her flesh to a man. I had imagined that I would talk serious shit tonight, but I only whisper words of endearment, definitely more Maxwell than Uncle Luke.

  Her body rises and falls over mine, and then my body rises and falls over hers. We morph into positions, our movements fluid like water bending around obstacles, blissfully unaware of any obstructions. The song repeats and our bodies move in an interminable passion that is only further enhanced by my desire to be close to her. The whole of her body is against mine, and I am taking in this moment for all that it’s worth.

  I faintly hear the sound of my own voice, as she looks down on me while I lie on my back. “You are amazing.” It’s not an exclamation; it’s a revelation.

  She begins to moan and she leans over to receive my waiting embrace. Her arms are wrapped around me, mine around her, and we are holding on to each other for dear life, as she moves her hips more rapidly and forcefully into mine. I feel like I know her body now, so I feel her when she climaxes in my arms. But it’s not like earlier in the car. This is different.

  “Marcia,” I whisper, loving the sound of her name as it escapes my lips.

  “Love me,” she says so softly I wonder if I am mistaken.

  I want to ask her to repeat it, but I’m afraid that she won’t. I respond, “Yes.”

  Then she says it again. “Love me.”

  My heartbeat quickens, and carefully I lift her face to mine. “Say it again,” I whisper, nearly breathless.

  She looks at me, her eyes focused on me in a way that I have never seen from any woman. “Love me.”

  At that moment something in me emerges from beyond the artificial wall I have erected in my mind. I can scarcely recognize my own voice, but in the raindrop like electric piano breakdown of song, I distinctly hear the words, “I do love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she responds, lowering her head back to my chest.

  I feel tears drip onto my chest, and I hold her more tenderly. I don’t know if she is happy or sad or confused, and I want to ask her what I can do, but when I feel her squeeze me harder, I realize that I am doing everything I can for her in this moment.

  As we lie on our backs, looking up at the ceiling, the sounds of Jill Scott filling the space around us, I say, “We only have three days left.”

  “I know,” she says, her voice full of doubtful exasperation.

  “We should be together.”

  She says nothing. She only lies next to me, her eyes still focused on the blue tint of darkness on my ceiling.

  I wish I knew what she was thinking, but I can’t read her words or her actions at this point. “You know I meant what I said earlier,” I finally say.

  “Yes,” she responds. “I know.”

  “Did you mean what you said?”

  She half-chuckles in an odd sarcastic way. “You already know the deal, Chucky.”

  “Maybe I do; maybe I don’t. Every time I want to believe this detached persona you project you open yourself even more to me. I don’t know what to make of this. Sometimes I think you are falling in love with me, and other times I think you want to tell me to leave you alone. But the thing is that you don’t. You keep coming back, and now I’m caught up in these feelings I have for you.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she says.

  “Follow your heart.”

  She turns to face me. “What if my heart doesn’t know?”

  I want to say some smooth shit that would convince her that I am the best choice for her, but the words fail me.

  “Can you hold me?” she asks, her eyes almost pleading with me.

  I take her in my arms, and she immediately nestles herself against me, where we remain until we both give way to the fatigue coursing through our bodies.

  When I wake around 5:30 a.m., she is gone.

  During the time we spent together, I had wondered how it would happen, how she would call it quits. Would it be a dinner conversation? Would we still be lying in orgasmic bliss when she arose from the bed to dress? Would it be a text message or a phone call? But nothing could have prepared me to awake in my bed to find myself alone, hours after we told each other, “I love you.”

 

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