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She rolled her eyes heavenward, enjoying a rather comical image of choking Loren until his head popped off his neck and floated away like a balloon. His effect on her thoughts and beliefs, even subconsciously, was more far-reaching than she ever imagined. It had been two weeks since she had sent him out of her life, but his imprint remained.
Damn it.
“Mademoiselle?”
“Yeah? Yes,” she said, softening her tone as she stroked her brows. “I’ll get it all set up and call you back with details.”
“Perfect.”
Desdemona was glad when they ended the call. Nothing was perfect. Not this deal. Not life. Not love. None of it. She learned early that every situation was a series of making the best out of it as possible. “Y’all taught me that,” she said, looking down at the ground beneath which her father’s body lay. “And so have all of the people I have met over the years. So many people trying to improve their lives in the best way they think they can, and I try not to burden them with the brutality or coercing or disrespect that I got. All of the women—and some men—who went on to live better lives with better careers. People who are happier than they were when I met ’em. Hell, like Franco, who wants to save up the money for gender reassignment surgery. There are two sides to every story, and on this side of it, I did my best to make people happy, Daddy. Doesn’tthatmatter?”
I should have said that to Loren, but no, I couldn’t. Not without revealing a piece of my life closed off to him.
“Why is a woman who chooses to prostitute of her own free will any worse than women who plot to marry wealthy men or those who have numerous lovers because it feeds their ego? So, a woman who freely fucks is more honorable than one who charges?”
It was always easy to argue with someone after the argument was done. She had all the proper responses for Loren now.It doesn’t matter. It’s done. We’re done.
Desdemona looked around at the many graves surrounding her. “Daddy, Ireallygotta get some friends,” she muttered with a little chuckle and self-deprecating shake of her head.
* * *
Desdemona tapped the end of her sharpened pencil against the page of the GED prep workbook as she looked out the windows at her view from where she sat at the dining room table. She was finding it hard to ignore just how much time she and Loren had spent in the very same spot—she studied and he sketched.
This absence was so different from the time he ended their tutoring sessions through an email. What had once been missing a fun person in her life was a longing for a lover. And her hunger for him—the all of him—was a hundred times worse under her very own roof.
Memories of him were everywhere, left behind like a haunting spirit. Tempting her. Making it hard to forget him.
“Shit,” she swore, dropping the pencil and raising her reading glasses to press the bridge of her nose.
Her life felt like that Deborah Cox song because she wanted to know how he got there when nobody was supposed to be there. Not love. But definitely in her life, filling the man space so easily that now she missed him. That wasn’t a part of the plan.
She got up from the table and walked across the space and down the bending hall to her bedroom. The bed was neatly made, but sitting on the bench at the foot was a pillow. She picked it up and pressed her face into it to inhale deeply of the scent of him that still clung to it. She hadn’t washed the pillow since the day he left. Same pillowcase and all.
And sometimes, late at night in her bed, or in a bath, she remembered him stroking inside her with ferocity and brought herself to an explosive climax that made her want him—in her bed and her life—even more. She still had so much to teach him about making love.
And he could have kept pushing me to live life to the fullest. To smile, laugh and be carefree.
Desdemona put the pillow down and went to her walk-in closet, opening the top drawer of the island. There atop the velvet lining with her expensive jewelry lay the necklace Loren gave her. She stroked the butterfly, loving the thoughtfulness behind his gift but dismayed that it reminded her of him, making the longing more intense.
My first V-day—Valentine’s Day—gift at thirty-five.
She closed her eyes with a soft grunt at the love they made that night. The Chopin and weed smoke blended in the air above and around them as they slow-stroked to one small climax after another until the final explosion that left them both shivering and weak.
I want to feel that way again.
Desdemona closed the drawer and hopefully memories of Loren.
In the kitchen, she poured a glass of Rieussec. In the dining room, she reclaimed her seat at the dining table and tried to resume her studies. When they failed to hold her attention, she made her way back to her bedroom and pulled up his Instagram account on her iPad.
Most were pictures of his sneakers with the hashtag #sneakerhead or of his different hair designs. Funny memes. Black history knowledge. Anti-Trump retweets. Covers of books he’s reading. Motivational quotes. A few big-butt beauties as his women crush Wednesday. Very few selfies.
She stopped at one of him in a suit and tie with his ankle crossed over his knee showing off his patterned socks and dope hard-bottom shoes. His hair was wild and his glasses were thin and gold, making the picture even more savage and sexy. “Future professor,” she read his caption, then smiled at all the women dropping heart-eyed emojis and kisses in the comments.
She wasn’t mad at him. He was irresistible.
And then she spotted the baby pic he had posted for throwback Thursday. “Awww,” she sighed. Every bit of it was adorable, from the massive curly Afro to his plump cheeks as he laughed, showing off one tooth trying to break through his gums. “I would love a little boy that looked just like . . .”
The rest of the words faded as she sat up straight, surprised at even a moment of imagining herself with a child. A mother? Me? A child? For Loren?
