Sin
Face to Face
It’s almost midnight. The party is packed, in full swing with no signs of slowing down.
It's been an incredible night doing my favorite thing—watching people who think they aren’t being watched.
A lot of these people I've only ever seen in films and on TV. So many of them are smaller, more ordinary in person than I could've imagined. There's a part of me that wishes I'd never seen them.
I enjoy my imagination much more than I do the reality of anything. If writing has taught me anything it’s that no human being belongs on a pedestal.
Kwame has barely left my side tonight. He's introduced me to countless people.
My head was spinning with the effort of keeping them all straight. And then he whispered, “Don't worry. No one remembers anyone's names here and most of them like it that way.”
The dress code is strictly traditional. Kwame’s purple Kente is draped over his shirtless torso and chest. Matching linen trousers skim long muscular legs and his feet are adorned in traditional leather and gold sandals.
He looks like the man of my dreams.
His arm is draped lazily around my shoulder. He's gazing out on the dance floor with an apathetic expression that makes him look like a casual observer.
He’s been looking for his father all night.
“Kwame, you old devil.” A lithe, dark-skinned Black woman saunters up to him and leans in for a kiss.
“Mrs. Wilde.”
“Call me Tina,” she coos and turns her dark eyes to me.
“I’m Sin.”
“I bet,” she quips.
“Sin, this is Tina Wilde, head of one of the largest conglomerates in the world. Tina, this is my girlfriend, Sin. She's a journalist.” He introduces me with such pride in his eyes.
She nods. “I have a daughter-in-law who's a journalist. I bet you keep him on his toes.” She winks. “Lovely to see you. Glad Palm Sunday is back. It’s one of my favorite places to do business.”
“I can see why,” I say only because it sounds like the right thing to say.
“As much as I love talking to you, Kwame, I must make hay.”
She gives up both air kisses before she glides away.
“Wow, I've never heard of her, but I feel like I should have.”
“She’s based in Houston and Paris. And her real estate development company is building a community in Maryland so you’ll be hearing more of her. What did you call it? Baader-Meinhof.”
“That’s not real.” I roll my eyes and glance around the room.
My stomach drops.
Ozwald Annan and Paloma Persaud are walking together seemingly deep in conversation. Like he feels my eyes on him, Oz looks my way and when our eyes connect, recognition seems to flare in his.
I swallow down the knot of dread that builds when he leans down to say something in Paloma’s ear. They both look in our direction and Paloma smiles at me and flutters her fingers in a wave.
I turn back to Kwame but he’s in the middle of a conversation with someone who looks familiar, but I can’t place. I’m itching to interrupt him and tell him that Oz is here.
I look around the room again and freeze when I lock eyes with the man himself. My pulse is racing and I reach out to put a hand on Kwame’s arm and squeeze. He looks over his shoulder at me, “You okay?”
