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When Sabela rang the doorbell, I felt a ruffle in my stomach. I greeted her with a soft kiss below the ear. She was a magnificent specimen of femininity in form-fitting jeans and a black sleeveless top. The white shawl draping her neck had red, gold and green embroidery along its edges.
“I really like the design of your shawl,” I said, caressing the fringes of the fabric.
“Thank you. It was a parting gift from my mother,” she replied in a dreamy voice.
She fingered one of her shoulder-length locs and her eyes seemed to be looking at her mother. Immediately, the desire to touch her face rushed upon me. Instead I touched her hair and commented on the recent addition of cowry shells. As she walked slowly to the living room, I followed with my eyes. Below Sabela’s right armpit was an armlet decorated with tiny wood squares and polished bone. The shawl fell long past her waist but with each step the mound beneath pushed against it, announcing its roundness through the veil. I had to shake my head to stave off the pornographic images my imagination created. Dinner before dessert, playah.
“So tell me about your visit home,” I said. We were drinking cabernet on the loveseat. Jazzy notes from a saxophone player on the stereo floated just above our heads.
“It was, as always, bittersweet,” Sabela replied.
“Tell me about the sweetness first.” I flashed a smile. Sabela returned the smile but didn’t immediately speak. I’m not disturbed by her silence ’cause she always weighs her words carefully. Then, as if I had designed the soundtrack, Brian McKnight’s falsetto broke through on cue, singing “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?” I love that song and Sabela seemed to be moved by his voice, too. So I invited her to dance. Another “yes.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. The smell of coconut in her hair and her hot breath falling on my neck invited me to pull her closer. Our pointed nipples met through the clothing. Her fingertips slowly snaked into the edges of my afro. Somewhere in the distance I heard myself moan. You touch me like you’ve been here before. I pushed a hand under her shirt and ran my fingers along her spine. Her skin was so smooth. Sensing my thirst and quenching her own, she kissed me. Our lips brushed lightly at first. My tongue slowly traced the upper edge of her open lips. Then I sank into the intoxicating warmth of her mouth. Suddenly I was wading waist-deep in a stream of molten desire. Floating, yearning, swirling at a dizzying pace upon the heat and flavor of Sabela’s kiss.
But she pulled away abruptly. Tried to walk away but I couldn’t let her go so easily.
“It’s okay,” I consoled, gripping her hand.
“I know it’s okay,” she said, mimicking my Southern drawl. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
While she was in the bathroom, I lit the candles around the apartment and set our appetizer on the dining room table. We had chilled slices of pineapples, mangoes, and peaches with a squeeze of lemon juice and a drop of whipped cream. Served in goblets.
“Everything looks and smells delicious,” Sabela said as she took her seat.
“I hope it tickles your palate,” I responded. I captured a slice of mango between my fingers and placed it on her waiting tongue. We ate and talked while our eyes spoke their own subtle language. Like the rest of our body parts, they were glad to be together again.
“So you’re not here to stay, are you?” I asked.
“You know I came here with a plan to get the necessary knowledge and take it back home.”
“Yet you’ve been working here for a few years. Has something changed?” My fingers danced along the smooth edges of her armlet.
“That’s a perceptive question. The more I learn about myself, the more I realize that my parents’ best intentions coincide with my needs. Lately I’ve been wondering if it’s possible to be of the village without being in it.”
“Does it really matter if you’re living there, if your work still improves the lives of the people the way you intend?”
“It’s not just that. My mother’s desire to keep me attached to the ‘old village’ customs claims me in ways that make it difficult to…”
Her voice trailed off and her eyes took on that dreamy stare again. She fingered a dangling cowry shell near her ear. I can’t remember ever wanting so badly to get inside someone’s head before. What is the story behind that stare? She has been so giving of herself, yet she remains so very private and distant at times. Out of nowhere, a thought provoked an unexpected, rumbling jealousy in me. A tingling sensation crept from the meeting of my thighs to the tips of my nipples. To calm myself, I rested a hand on her leg.
“Do you mean you’ve made some priestly vow?” And then the real suspicion: “Or are you promised to someone there already?”
Sabela squirmed uncomfortably in her seat so I removed my hand.
“Not exactly,” she said. “I was initiated into the sacred knowledge when I came of age. It was a gift from the women of the village. I vowed never to share the knowledge and to attend the ceremony when any woman in my family is initiated. It has complicated my life somewhat. I have committed myself to the ancestors and to the generations.”
“Sacred knowledge? Can you tell me more?”
“I really like you, Marsalis.”
Sabela grasped my hand and massaged between my fingers. Not sure what to make of the tinge of sadness in her voice, I instantly contemplated rejection: Is she about to say we can’t be together tonight? This conversation is killing the vibe. I know she wants me. Keep the sacred knowledge. I can be satisfied with just the carnal.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sabela asked.
I decided to answer with my body. I slid out of my chair and stood on my knees before her. I pushed myself between her open legs. My hands traveled her outer thighs and hips.
“Kiss me,” I said in a pleading tone.
When she bent to oblige, I grabbed her head and plunged my tongue into her balmy mix of wine and pesto. Even then, I could feel a cage of dangerous emotions flinging open. Her leg muscles flexed and released around my waist, making me want to give Sabela a preview of the expert probing that would soon take place. I pushed her gently back into the chair and brushed a hand slowly over one very erect nipple. She did not resist. So I leaned down into her lap and caressed her thighs with my face. I lifted one leg over my shoulder and, as she slid forward, I dragged my teeth over the inner seam of her jeans, roving hungrily toward her zipper.
