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“Always,” he encouraged.
“It’s decorated really well. Good job,” she said.
“But . . .”
“It’sreallysmall,” she added with a wince meant to take the bite off her words.
He laughed. “Yeah it is, but it’s all I need.AndI’m a doctoral student.AndI’m grateful. I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet. Helen Keller,” he added.
“I know,” she said, remembering a time when even three hundred square feet would have been a blessing. “You’re right, Lo. You’re always right.”
“Nah. Far from it. I’m just right about what affects me because I refuse to be unhappy. Life is too short to worry, and most times if you just ask yourself one question, you’ll see things from a different point of view.”
She came to stand beside him at the stove, giving in to the urge to ease her hand under his T-shirt to stroke his back. “And that is?” she asked.
“Or,” he said simply, looking down at her over the rim of his spectacles.
Confusion reigned. “Huh?”
He turned and leaned back against the counter, crossing his bare feet at the ankle. “Let’s say you meet this woman and she is always mad at you. Just mad. You should ask yourself:Oris she not mad at me but having a bad day?Oris she sick and grouchy in general?Oris she going through something and could use a friend?Or—”
“I get it,” she said, holding up a hand.
He laughed and shrugged. “If you walk around not caring about others and making everything about you—like everyone and everything is out to get you—it will turn you into a miserable person.”
“Is that why you are so damn happy all the time?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Oris it just your youth and the world hasn’t effed with you enough to dim the sunshine for you?”
His eyes were suddenly serious. “I’ll always be this way, because everything you do, think, or feel is a choice, and I choose to be happy,” he said. “Do you want me to change?”
Desdemona kicked off the leather booties she wore with a fitted cream cowl-necked dress of matte jersey with a skirt down to the floor. She settled her chin on his chest as she looked up at him. “Never,” she promised him, wishing she had more of his optimism.
Avoiding jail just won’t allow it.
Still, the time she spent with Lo made her life feel lighter, and she found herself craving more and more of it. He was the bright spot in a life once filled with struggle. He simply made her happy to be in his company. His joy was infectious.
When he pressed both of his hands to her face and bent to kiss her lips, she clutched at his shirt and extended the kiss with several of her own.
He winked at her before turning his attention back to stirring the stew.
She picked up her shoes and set them by the door before reaching in her tote for her phones to make sure she hadn’t missed a call. She was relieved to find she hadn’t. She had five courtesans out at the moment. She wasn’t a doctor, but she was on call.
Desdemona turned to look at Loren again, taking in his burnt orange V-neck shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and bare feet with his hair pulled back into a bushy ponytail. “Who braids your hair?” she asked, suddenly in need of that information.
“One of my homegirls,” Loren said, putting a lid on the pot and wiping his hands on a black kitchen towel before draping it over the sink. “I need to call her. I washed it this morning.”
“Nah,” she said, mimicking his style as she sat on the sofa and pointed to the spot on the floor between her legs. “Sit.”
Loren looked doubtful. “You can braid... with those?” he asked, eying her nails.
“Nothing elaborate like old girl but definitely two cornrows,” she said, lifting the skirt of her dress to drape over her thighs. “Bring a comb, brush, and hair grease if you have it.”
He did, retrieving everything from his bathroom before sitting down on the floor between her open legs. “Hand me the remote?” he asked, taking it from her when she did and turning on the large flat-screen on the wall.
They watched a marathon ofMartinas Desdemona took her time and greased his scalp before she brushed his hair until it gleamed. Using the end of a rattail comb, she parted it down the middle and then took her time capturing the mass of hair in two straight cornrows. The ends of them were past his shoulders and automatically curled. “There,” she said, twisting the cap back on the pomade before setting it on the floor beside him.
Loren reached up with his large hands to feel his hair.
“You could just go look in the mirror,” she said.
