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“I didn’t come in here to fight with you,” Charleston said.
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I came here to”—he paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a little box. He sat it on the desk—“give you another chance. It’s your ring.”
“What?” Tamia asked, looking at the box. And even though she hated Charleston, even though she’d sworn off diamonds and the exploitation of any jewels from nations under duress, the little girl in her wanted so badly to grab the box, pull the ring out, and dance around the room.
“I know Tasha told you,” Charleston said. “It’s the ring you wanted. You can have it. It’s yours. If you come back to me. Be my wife.” His voice was reasonable. Flat. Clear. Like a contract attorney showing his client where the line was to sign. He was so sure of himself.
“Marry you?” Tamia looked past the ring, the wedding, the idea of marriage and saw the man sitting before her. “Marry you? You? Not even if Isis and Yemaya and Coretta Scott King and my own mama got up out of the grave and came and sat in this office and told me to do exactly that would I do such a thing.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, excuse you,” Tamia said with her voice reasonable, flat, and clear now, “for thinking you could come up in here, into my office, and think you could buy me like I’m some stupid, silly whore, who thinks the only way she can be free is to cling to what little of a man is left in you. I can get what I need without you. And I don’t need Trump Towers or a Bentley. I might have wanted those things at one time, but I don’t need them. That was a joke. And now the joke is on you.”
A different man, maybe one with less money or a smaller penis, one with a smaller ego and fewer women at his disposal, might have heard and been hurt by Tamia’s words. And, yeah, some of it did get through to Charleston and scratch at his surface, but he was a showman. And he specialized in not letting what others said stop his show. Luckily for Tamia, she wasn’t saying what she was saying for him. It was for her.
“Fine,” Charleston said coolly. He picked up the ring like it was a tennis ball and shoved it back into his pocket. “Suit yourself.”
With Tamia’s cold eyes on him, he stood, walked over to the door, and turned back to her.
“When he fails and you’re broke and down in the gutter, you remember what you did right now,” he said. “You remember the life I offered you…. What I am talking about…He won’t fail you, because he won’t be with you. He’s just another nigger wearing a loincloth. A nigger in a suit…a nigger in a loincloth…either way, he’s gonna fuck up. But you don’t need to worry about that. You’ll just be another sad, lonely black woman. Scarred by the world and dead-ass broke.” He laughed and shook his head.
“Get out,” Tamia said. “Get out of my office.”
?
Tamia was so angry after her talk with Charleston, she didn’t notice any of the looks from any of the bystanders peering at her as she got out of her taxi and walked into the doors of her posh and soon-to-be-available pad at Trump Towers. Her knapsack on her back and her flip-flops clacking against the cold marble floor, she trudged through the lobby, head lowered, and ready for sleep. What was coming in the morning? She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care what was to become of any of this. It was all pointless. All a justice-free dance of chance and lies. Malik. Charleston. One and the same. More men to let her down. More men to walk away from.
“Madame,” Bancroft called, rushing toward her from his office, “I’m so sorry I hadn’t caught you when you arrived.”
“It’s fine,” Tamia said. “Allejandro got the door for me.” She pointed to Allejandro, the night doorman, who was assisting another resident with her Jack Russell.
“No, dear heart,” Bancroft said. “It was to say thank you.”
“Thank you for what?”
“For the felted sticks you left on my desk.”
“The…??” Tamia tried. “Oh, you mean the incense?”
“Yes, they’re quite fragrant. I’d like some more,” he explained, leaving out the part about his lover and him burning all of the sticks in one night to hide the smell of marijuana billowing from their apartment. And, yes, he knew dang well they were called incense.
“I’ll be sure to bring some down to you.” Tamia smiled and started walking toward the elevator.
“Your guests,” Bancroft said, “you won’t be joining them in the ballroom?”
“I’m not having any guests,” Tamia said, pressing the button for the elevator.
“Certainly you are,” Bancroft said, poking his chest out and pointing dramatically toward the Tower’s private ballroom. “Madame Natasha and Madame Troy Helene await your presence at high tea.”
Tamia’s knapsack fell to her wrist.
“High what?” She tried to remain angry but had to smile. “No, those crazy chicks didn’t.”
Oh, but, yes, they did. And well.
Tamia walked into the ballroom to find a table set for three, surrounded by what looked like hundreds of yellow tea roses, and a string quartet and a stack of gift boxes.
