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I grin, knowing all too well her deep attraction to African men. All through high school and college all she dated were men from Africa. Her three serious boyfriends were Nigerian, Kenyan, and Su
danese, respectively. Yet, she married Stevie, who is handsome nonetheless, but far from African.
“Ooh, straight from the Motherland,” I tease.
“Yes, Lord.” She shakes her head and waves a hand, causing her jet-black, shiny bob to swing. “I’d love to see him in a loincloth.”
“Ladies, your table is ready,” the attractive hostess interrupts, walking up to us holding a set of menus. She escorts us to a table upstairs.
We take our seats, and within seconds, a server appears and asks us for our cocktail selection. We both order mango cosmopolitans, then eye him as he walks off to place our drink orders.
“So, how are the twins making out since we last spoke?”
She rolls her eyes, giving me a dismissive wave, sending her diamond and gold bangles jingling. “Girl, please. Don’t even get me started. Amina is two seconds from being shipped off to a boarding school in the Swiss Alps somewhere. And unless I find a chastity belt to lock her in, Amira is mostly like going to end up being shipped to a convent once she’s healed and her stitches are removed.”
I chuckle, but I’m silently relieved that Marcel and I don’t have any children. Not that we haven’t talked about it. But we’re both so career-driven and so into each other that having children hasn’t made the top of our “to-do” list, especially not since the two miscarriages four years ago. And after watching Jasmine get dragged through the wringer by her daughters, living vicariously through her woes of motherhood has definitely made the idea of having kids less and less appealing.
“Hopefully they’ll see the light. And things will get better.”
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “When? Before or after they run me ragged?”
I reach over and grab her hand, giving her a gentle squeeze and a sympathetic look. “I feel your pain.”
“Thanks. Okay, enough about my drama,” she says as the waiter returns. He sets down our water, and drinks, then gives his spiel on tonight’s specials. We listen to him rattle off a list of delectable dishes, before I tell him we’ll need a few moments to decide.
Grabbing one of the menus, Jasmine looks it over. “Mmm. Everything looks delicious. I can’t decide between the Tamarind scallops or the Lobster Masala.”
“Girl, they’re both delicious,” I say, flipping through a menu as well. “You can’t go wrong with either dish.”
Tamarind’s is one of my favorite Indian restaurants in the city. I’d been looking forward to tonight’s meal all day while enjoying the company of my soror and best friend.
“Are you ready to order”—Jasmine nods at the approaching waiter—“I’m starving.” She licks her lips, lifting her glass and taking a sip from her drink.
He leans in and attentively takes our orders. Jasmine orders the scallop dish with a side of lemon rice. And I order the spinach and garlic rice along with the spinach patties with intentions of sharing some with Marcel when I get home.
The waiter takes our menus, then saunters off. I toss my linen napkin over my lap, then lean forward, resting my forearms on the crowded table. “So how’s Stevie?”
She drolly rolls her big doe-like eyes and sips from her cosmo. “Compulsively obsessed with work, always looking to make his next million.”
I smile knowingly. For as long as I’ve known Stevie he’s always been a go-getter. Driven. Even though he was born into a well-to-do family, he’s always prided himself on making his own way, which is why he opted to not work in his family’s billion-dollar hair care business.
“But no matter how much he works, he always makes time for the three most important women in his life,” she adds. There’s a hint of admiration and lots of love in the way she says this. And I can’t help but think of Marcel and his love for me. “I wouldn’t trade him in for nothing in the world.”
“We both married great men,” I agree, taking a sip of my drink.
The waiter returns with our dishes, setting our plates down in front of us, then checking to see if we need anything else. My stomach rumbles. And I think I hear Jasmine’s rumbling as well. Neither of us wait for the waiter to walk off before we’re quickly saying grace, then digging in.
“So let me ask you something,” Jasmine says, between chews of scallops. “If Marcel ever cheated on you, what would you do?”
I blink, caught off guard by the random question. I chew the portion of food in my mouth, then swallow. “Well, I’m not sure how to answer that,” I say, setting my fork down on my plate and raising my brows. “I mean. There’s no reason for him to ever have to cheat on me. I’m open enough to allow him a free pass to screw whomever he wants with some rules, of course.”
Her eyes widen in surprise as if they’re ready to pop out of their sockets. “You’d do what? Give him the okay to cheat on you?”
Although Jasmine and I are very close, and she knows Marcel and I have had threesomes, I’ve never disclosed to her just how open my marriage to Marcel is. She doesn’t know about the men whom we also share our bed with. That tidbit is none of her business, or anyone else’s.
As freaky and open-minded as Jasmine might profess to be—and, yes, she’s been known to fuck her husband Stevie in public places and allows him to fuck her in all three holes, her freak flag does not—and probably will never—fly as high as mine. And I don’t feel like having to explain or defend my acceptance of Marcel’s bisexuality, or the fact that I, too, am bisexual and enjoy watching him share himself with other men. And vice versa.
Yes, she’s aware I’ve slept with other females. But as far as she knows it was a phase during college, a period of experimentation and self-exploration.
