Between Lovers (5 page)

I ask, “What you looking at, moneywise?”

“At least a million. I wanna be a baller like you.”

“Nobody balling but you. Sounds like you got all the cheddar.”

“With the cost of living and property, that's chump change up here. Hate thinking what the capital gains taxes are gonna be, but either way it'll be a nice piece of change.”

“Need any help before then, let me know.”

“I'm cool. Thanks for offering. That's sweet of you.”

I'd give her my all, but she relies on me for nothing but love.

She doesn't have that Cinderella gene. Anything a man can do, she can do to the nth degree. She'll let the man be the head of the house, be it for his ego or the way she wants it to be, but she will not become dependent. That lets me know that the reason she's with me comes from the heart. She's better than Cinderella. She has beauty and skills. Outside of a dysfunctional family and a glass shoe, Cinderella had nothing but beauty and that fades with each tick-tock of the clock.

And at the same time, I want to be her prince. Want to ride up to her window on a black stallion, let her throw down a lock of her hair so I can climb up into her castle and snatch her ass down to my reality.

A beautiful sister walks by. Both of us stare at her, then at each other.

Nicole puts her arms around my shoulders, kisses the side of my face, tastes my drying sweat before she tongues me with a true passion, allows me to taste her salty emotions, each kiss asking me to accept her as she is, pimples on her butt, dry scalp, PMS, soft-legged lover and all.

She says, “Okay, now I'm getting cold.”

As we stroll, she does a couple of gymnastic walk overs, first forward then backward, then laughs, puts her face to mine and sucks my lips again. Even her moist skin is as sweet as a mango. With people rushing by, heading into all the seaside specialty shops, we close our eyes and kiss. Her bracelets sing and jangle as she hugs me. I pretend we're still engaged and that sound is the sound of wedding bells.

We head through the lobby, chitchat with the beautiful Ethiopian women who're working at the desk. One of them heard I was back, brought a book for me to sign. A girl I've seen quite a few times over the last few months. Generous smile and bright eyes. Brown flesh that looks good in her blue uniform, white blouse. Her fine and curly reddish-brown hair always pulled into a long ponytail.

I read her nametag. “Your name is Tuesday?”

“No, it's T-s-e-d-a-y.”

“How do you pronounce that?”

“Sah-day.”

“Pretty. And your last name?”

“A-b-e-r-r-a. Oh, but don't use my last name. Make it real informal. Write something juicy, you know, so it'll sound like I know you. Wanna make my friends jealous.”

We laugh.

I stop and do that, small talk with her as I write. Nicole moves on toward the continental breakfast buffet, goes near the fireplace and the fruit.

Tseday smiles whenever our eyes meet. Speaks with an intellectual, almost British accent that is an aphrodisiac to my ears. She says, “I love your book. The mother in the book was fit for the looney bin. She was a regular Jerry Falwell.”

“Thank you. That she was.”

“I was telling my friends that you're much lighter in person than the picture on the back of your book.”

“I could stand some sun.”

“And that black-and-white picture does not show how pretty your eyes are. What color are they?”

“A shade of gray. Depends on the light, changes with my mood.”

“The girls talk about your eyes every time you walk by. You should hear them.”

“Sweetie?” Nicole calls me. She's listening. Her eyes turning as green. “I'm getting cold. Need to get out of these wet clothes.”

I tell her to wait a second.

Tseday lowers her voice. “You better go before your friend shoots me.”

“She doesn't own a gun.”

“Not hard to find one in Oakland.”

I finish signing the book, tell Tseday to have a peaceful day, and follow Nicole up the stairs.

Nicole says, “Why didn't she just suck your dick right there?”

“Jealous?”

“Yes.”

I bump her and say, “Hypocrite.”

“We're all living contradictions, trying to survive in a world filled with hypocrites.”

“Whatever,” I say, then let out a hard grunt. “Now you know how I feel every day.”

We hold hands as we walk by the Asian maids, the people in business suits.

As soon as we get in my room, I see the message light is on. I check the message while we undress.

I tell Nicole, “André called. He's in town.”

“He's doing a show?”

“He's performing in Walnut Creek tonight. Wanna hang after I leave Black Books?”

“Too much work to do, sweetie.”

“You're his favorite soror,” I tell her. “You have to go see your frat.”

“Why don't you take the girl downstairs?”

“Don't you think that's pretty fucked up?”

“Was joking. I know she's not your type.”

“Not that. You can ask me to meet your lesbian, but if I ask you to support an old friend, my frat brother, one of your frat brothers, you shake your head and say no before I get the question out.”

Silence.

“What are you afraid of?” I ask. “It ain't like he don't already know.”

More silence.

We put our wet gym clothes in plastic laundry bags, so I can send our gear out to get laundered later. She turns on the shower. We put on shower caps. Tension is between us, but when we touch, when my flesh feels her love, it happens again. That magic.

She says, “Damn, boo. You're hard again. Thought I killed that snake before we ran.”

I laugh. Sometimes she says the most countrified things. I say, “See what you do to me?”

“How much ginseng are you taking? Geesh. You work me like a pork chop in a pit bull farm.”

“Only see you once a month. Gots to get what I can while I can. Either that or me and my hand.”

“Can't have you going blind. Let me please you.”

“Got time for that?”

“Be quick. Don't wanna be late for that conference call with South Africa.”

Inside the shower I love her from behind. Water so warm we're in a tropical storm. Our shower caps making that crinkle-crinkle noise when our heads rub. She bends over, my hands on her hips as she arches into me, receives me with eagerness, her palms against the white porcelain, pushing back against me as I ease inside her. I'm searching for a special room, a place no one has found before, a room to call my own. Our fit, so right, so tight. I want to give her pleasure in a way I know her live-in-roommate can‘t, the way a woman was designed to receive a man.

“God ... you're ... so ... intense ... what ... are you trying ... to do ... to do ... to do ... to me.”

She pants that heaven's coming closer. My hand slides, grips her belly, pulls her into me. I hold her, keep her from slipping, let her feel me mushrooming, the heat in me dancing with the fire inside her.

She's loud, grunting, slipping into a marvelous pain.

Her movement becomes intense, pushes back at me so hard I almost lose my balance.

She moans loud, curses even louder, and when I slow, in the sweetest tone, she calls God and Jesus.

Without warning, everything changes. Her body goes cold. Chill bumps rise all over her flesh.

I ask her if she's okay, try to find out what happened, what just went wrong.

She whispers my name a thousand times, asks me not to stop, not be gentle, begs me not to stop, please don't stop, because she needs to get back to that celestial place where this judgmental world doesn't matter. But the curses, the shivers, the begging me not to stop, this time it has nothing to do with pleasure. She's crying. Boo-hooing like a baby. She wobbles. Breaks down with tears.

Then she wails like someone has taken a hatchet to the center of her soul.

Her eyes close tight, very tight, she stiffens, puts her forehead to the wall, bumps her head two good times. I don't know if I should run and dial 911 or hold her. She howls. Scares the hell out of me. I hold her, telling her that it's okay, we're okay, keeping her back against my chest, warm water washing away the scents and liquids from the loving we just made.

She calms down. Not all the way, just enough.

I ask, “What was that all about?”

Every part of her shivers at the same time; she's still shaking her head, quivers away from my embrace. Then she backs into me, reaches for my hands, puts them around her.

We shower again, neither of us talking. She cleanses me head to toe.

I ask, “You okay?”

“Raise your foot so I can wash the bottom.” She doesn't look up at me, but I can see that her eyes have more color than the red sands in the Kalahari Desert. “What time is your signing today?”

“Noon. You coming?”

“Too much work. Can't get to Vallejo and back on lunch.”

“This evening? Why can't we hook up this evening?”

She sighs. “Have dinner plans.”

“With your friend?”

“Don't press it.”

“Why did you say that you—?”

“I do have to work too. I'm trying to balance things out. Work, her, you. It's hard being everything to everybody. No more pressure, please.”

Silence.

She says, “I promise I'll come back tonight.”

“I-page me, let me know what's up. Don't flake and leave me hanging.”

She rambles, “And wear your black. You look good in your black. Wear your wool pants. You have to stop wearing jeans, sweetie. Put on your Banana Republic stuff. Women are aesthetic and will buy your books just because you look good. Wear the CK body lotion. And smile a lot. Floss and don't eat again before you go there. That way food won't fly out of your mouth. Always smile a lot. Women love pretty teeth. People with funky breath and jacked-up grills don't sell as well.”

“You okay?”

“And no matter what anybody says, even if they insult you or love you, always be gracious. Remember that they are putting the meals on your table. Every time you sign a book, imagine that you're writing yourself a check, because that's what you're doing.”

“Nicole, you okay?”

“And take your tape recorder. Record your discussion and the questions for me, sweetie.”

“Nicole, are you okay?”

“Stop asking me that.”

“Don't go bitch on me.”

She twists her lips. “Sorry. I'm okay. Not trying to go bitch on you.”

It's still early. We dry off. She puts on a beautiful thong and bra set; Cosabella underwear. Gets dressed in record time. With glossy eyes, she says she has to go. At that moment I'm at the dining table. She's in the bedroom, gazing my way. The plantation shutters divide us.

She says, “I'll take your laptop with me.”

I back up a few files to floppy, power the system down, pack my Compaq into my brown leather shoulder bag, the one with all the pictures. She's not looking, her mind elsewhere. I dig in and take three of those pictures out. I always keep a couple of them near the left side of my chest.

I ask if she's hungry. She shakes her head and looks at her watch. No time to drive into Berkeley and grub on omelettes at Crepevine, not enough time to order a quick plate of fruit from room service. She doesn't want me to walk her downstairs to her car. She grabs her purse, straps it over her left shoulder, her weak shoulder, my laptop over her other shoulder. She needs to get away from me. I know her, see it in her eyes. Nicole gets her keys, hesitates and toys with the Siebel Systems keychain, gives me a thin kiss, hurries for the door, leaving her overnight bag and toiletries here.

At the door, Nicole stops, holds the handle, then says, “Her name is Ayanna.”

I stay where I am.

I ask, “She a white girl?”

The door clicks open. Those bracelets jingle as she leaves. The door clicks when it closes.

I don't ask if she's rushing to her white-collar job in Emeryville, or running home to see her soft-legged lover. Don't ask if she's leaving dick to chase clit.

The photos I took from my messenger bag, I stare at them as I stand on the balcony in my jeans and USC sweatshirt, the cold ocean air massaging my face. Nicole is gone, but she's still here. Her earthy fragrances and green tea body wash linger.

I gaze five floors down and wonder if I jump, if that mythical place called heaven would accept me as I am. There have been days when I didn't want to wake up. I used to think that meant I was crazy, but I'm no different from the rest of the world. Only sane people feel this way. Crazy people are the ones who think they are always sane.

Nicole leaves the hotel and checks her watch as she races up the wheelchair ramp, then balances her load as she jogs the stairs leading to the Starbucks. That coffee-house is connected to the Barnes and Noble. Nicole never looks up. She knows where my room is. I always stay in the same room. She knows I'm watching, because she knows me, and she never looks up.

In the chilling breeze, the sun in my eyes, I wait, photos in hand, lips tight, lines blooming in my forehead, the same think lines my old man gets when he's in his philosophical mode. I'm worried about Nicole, about her tears, her anger, her pain, wondering what I can do to make a corner of it go away.

Then, with reluctance, I dial a number in Tennessee. Nicole's mother. Our southern-fried diva is happy to hear my voice, at least she tells me she is happy.