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“I’m sorry,” Sanad whispered into my ear.
I had no words. That’s all I needed to hear. The music stopped and I could hear her walking toward us, then I could feel her on the bed. She lay next to me, stroking my hair, and then…
…I died in their arms.
Nine months earlier, I had been diagnosed with cancer and was given six months to live, so I was on borrowed time. I prayed to see Sanad before I died, and my wish was granted. Now he will pine for me.
Modern Cinderella
Alice Sturdivant
The annual Stepping Onward and Upward charity dinner is a bore to anyone that usually goes, but for me, a first-timer and eager to try out a new black dress, it was a much needed chance to step into a world that I don’t usually get to see. Everybody has seen the black elite in our city: rich, glittering, and eager to catch up to and outdo their white counterparts. This evening’s dinner was no different, with uniformed waiters hovering discreetly around the numbered tables. As I was led to my table, I was a little disappointed to see that I was the only person being seated there. My disappointment was only lessened by s
eeing no less than five men discreetly look at me as I passed their tables, ignoring their dinner partners for a second and wondering who the newcomer was. Although the nouveaux riches pride themselves on being fashionably liberal and egalitarian, it was common knowledge that they are mindful of just whom they let in their midst and whom they don’t. The Stepping On, Noses Upward, as they were snickeringly called by those not invited to their closed-ranked soirees, believed firmly that society is not about whom you let in, but whom you keep out.
The chair was far enough away from the podium that I wouldn’t have to pretend to pay much attention to the speakers, and—more important—I wouldn’t seem too terribly rude when I made my early departure. I couldn’t be expected to introduce myself as an intruder—a working-class gate-crasher who had the good fortune to have a friend of a friend give her an invitation—could I? Besides, tonight, mystery would be part of the allure, part of the persona. Tonight, I would be another soft, brown-skinned, well-bred, spoiled beauty who walked with ease in shoes that cost a month’s rent and a dress that showed off curves without seeming to. The triple-strand pearl necklace I’d pulled from my sister’s jewelry box (and sworn never to lose upon pain of death) complemented my caramel skin to perfection and forced me to hold my head high—but the easy smile I lent to the admiring eyes made me out to be friendly, despite my supposed lineage.
I had been seated by the waiter and was waiting for my merlot, half studying the program below my place setting, when he showed up.
“I’m glad to see someone else from the firm is here.” He smiled, his gaze lingering a second longer than was merely polite at the expanse of skin below the necklace.
I smiled back, my Chanel-glossed lips turning upward invitingly, and nodded. “It does seem a trifle empty, doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t going to correct him on his incorrect assumption that we were from the same company. Years of working for men such as this made it easy to pretend I’d spent years working with them.
When he sat down, his smile widened appreciatively. “Well, I guess it’s just us.”
He was handsome, with chocolate brown skin, big, dark eyes that seemed to focus only on me, and a dimple in his left cheek. He had a precise haircut that could only have come from a barber who only took referrals, from the right sort of client. In sunlight, his hair would have shown the beginnings of what his assistant would have described as “distinguished salt-and-pepper,” but in the dim light of the Whitney dining room, the little whorls of his hair made me wonder what it would feel like against the bare skin of my thighs. He was a little older than I; midforties, perhaps. Experienced.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before. Did you come to the Hall of Fame induction?”
What a line, but, hey, I’d bite. He was good-looking, and so was I; plus I only had one night to play at this.
“No…I don’t usually come to these things.”
The waiter brought my wine. I caught my tablemate eyeing my hands as I reached for the stem of the glass. I was glad I’d done my own manicure before I left. I looked at his mouth; kissable, definitely.
“Are you from Charlotte? I could have sworn I’d seen you in the office…the Durham office, perhaps?” he went on, trying to place me.
While he talked, I studied his eyes, his suit: designer and expertly tailored. The watch that peeked from below his cuff was something French and, while not diamond-studded, had enough flash to let me know it wasn’t cheap. He had the air of a high executive, not a mere businessman; usually just the type that I would consider out of my league. But not tonight.
“I don’t think we met at the Durham office; perhaps one of the smaller gallery openings?” I found myself licking my lips, just to see if he would follow the quick movement of my tongue. Something about his cologne was making me pleasantly warm.
His dark eyes caught the pink tip of my tongue against the burgundy shine of my mouth, and I wanted to grin with the knowledge. But even one generation from the farm, I knew better than to show my hand. I sipped my wine.
“What are you drinking?” His eyes were skimming down the wineglass, examining my fingertips, the delicate skin of my wrist. Again, I wanted to squirm in my chair. My clit was quite interested in the firm lines of his mouth and the possibilities it held. I gave him the name of the wine, and he motioned to the waiter and murmured, “I’ll have what she’s having.” His eyes didn’t leave me.
The waiter brought his wine, and he reached and took it with his left hand. At first the gleam of the gold band on his ring finger startled me, then I grinned to myself. He’d had practice—we’d been talking for about ten minutes and I hadn’t even seen it. So much for discreetly slipping him my number, I thought.
He inquired about my family, still trying to place me, and I lied smoothly that most of my family was in Charleston, by way of Barbados. I saw him imagining years of scandalous interracial relationships that ultimately lent me my deep honey-brown skin and my sandy brown hair, now arranged in a pretty, curly bob. I quirked my mouth at his open study and did not look away. He licked his lips and I could feel the flicker of an imaginary tongue on my right nipple, right below the mole.
“Well, for the next time we meet, why don’t I tell you my name,” I purred, offering my hand and introducing myself. Let him try to look me up in the city social registers; who cared after tonight, anyway? “Alicia Dwyer.”
He took my hand and shook it softly, his eyes still boring into me. “Kenneth. Kenneth Prince.”
I didn’t know the name and was relieved for a second. His hands were soft but capable, obviously unused to manual labor. Those blunt, long fingers were holding mine a little too gently and a little longer than necessary. Lucky Mrs. Prince, home all by herself, I thought. His thumb rubbed the delicate webbing between my thumb and forefinger. Lucky Mrs. Prince, indeed. I looked into those dark eyes and, for a second, wondered if he was the type to close his eyes when he’s deep in a woman’s pussy, or if he preferred to watch everything. His eyes stared back into mine, an unmistakable invitation.
He was a looker, in more ways than one. He’d definitely watch.
