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I pull back as the cold realization of what I’m doing drops over me like an ice bucket challenge.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” I tap his shoulder, simultaneously pushing away at the same time.
His hard angular jaw flexes as he looks down at me. His onyx eyes hold a mystery only known to him.
“You don’t have to apologize. Ore o yurushitekure.” He bows, taking a couple steps away. Coolly closing his jacket, covering the bulge in his pants, his eyes unwavering he asks, “When can I see you again?”
Focus. I shake my head. “Umm, I don’t that’s a good idea,” I hedge, the near miss of what I almost allowed with a complete stranger scaring me more than thatExorcistmovie my cousin, Joi conned me into watching that one time. “I only came tonight because it was basically a requirement of the fellowship. The courses here are rigorous. I-I’m… my time is going to be spent writing and directing plays for the fall and spring season.”
Why do I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office? Why is my heart hurting at the thought of disappointing him?
“Give me your phone,” he demands, holding out his hand in such expectation of my acquiesce I feel a compulsion to put it in his much larger hand.
His fingers close over it. He scrolls to my contacts. “Call or text me. If you need anything, I will be here for you. I won’t lie and say I want to just be your friend, but if friend is all you can allow for now, I will play that role — for now.”
Handing the phone back, his hand closes over mine. There is nothing gentle about him this time. Just short of bruising with the phone trapped between us he draws me close then closer still until our size difference is once again obvious. I curl intomyself unable to withstand his intense scrutiny. He bends down whispering in my ear, “Know this, little dove, you are mine. Not will be. Are. You are mine. I will watch over you. I will take care of you. Always.”
After pressing a kiss to my temple he releases me taking his warmth. I shiver but I know it’s not from the loss of heat. Uncurling, I look at my contacts seeing what he put his name under: H??.
Two weeks later…
“These are for you”, the resident assistant says as soon as I enter the lobby. The fragrance of camellias and roses greets me as I walk up to the desk. There is a black card attached already opened by Ms. Nosey, here. I take it out knowing it will just have a monogrammed H in the center and nothing else.
Sticking it into the back pocket of my jeans, I give her a brief smile. “Thanks.” I ignore the inquiry in her gaze. We are not friends. I have no friends here, only acquaintances. Alexa and the other fellowship students are cool, but most of them are in business and technology. All the people who get me are my fellow theater nerds. Only difference is our focuses diverge in a way that makes me doubt my chances of having my play picked as the one selected to be produced.
American theater’s vision is one of hope and resilience, the cultural vision of my eastern colleagues is different. They believe in the cold reality of life when more than often despair prevails. Tragedies are often the theme. I’ve been admonished by my professors that I need to get with the program. I try to explain to them that my people prevailed through despair, Black Americans believe in overcoming adversity. Respectful as they are, they still have little patience for what one termed as a Pollyanna view of life that is trite at best.
Dropping my bag on my bed, I put my flowers on the desk. The others are starting to wilt and need to be thrown out. This man has my room smelling like a rose garden. The flowers began the day after the gala and continued every three days. He texts every morning at five a.m. The time I guess he gets up wishing me a good morning. Then again at night. He left me to the work I insisted came before everything. I’m sure he was busy with his. Every morning and evening, I respond out of politeness. At least that’s what I tell myself.
How can I miss someone I’ve only met once? He left a massive impression kissing me the way he did. Making my body feel all kinds of naughtiness I’ve never had time to explore.
I can’t help but think he found me gauche. He’s the scion of the Takeda family, one of the Tokyo elites. He obviously knows his way around a woman’s body and I’m sure he could tell. I didn’t know what I was doing. He must find me incredibly provincial. Naivete is cute but can become boring or irritating to the more experienced set. Maybe sending flowers is his way of slowly pulling away.
“If a man really wants you, you ain’t gone get rid of him,” my great-great aunt, Mama-Pete used to say when she sat on my grandmother’s porch as they gossiped about some unfortunate girl chasing after some man. I never forgot that little nugget of wisdom.
Taking that into account, I put my new batch into fresh water. New determination fills me, thinking of how I can’t allow a few bouquets of flowers to sway me. I grab my phone, texting him for the first time.
Me:The flowers are lovely. You don’t have to keep sending them.
The reply is quick and the to the point.
H??:You’re welcome, little dove. I will.
I can’t help but ask.
Me:Why?
Another quick reply.
H??:You said you were too busy for more.
Several seconds go by as I read his wordsover and over the realization dawning that he’s taken my words to heart. Working within the parameters of what I insisted I needed at that moment. He’s letting me take the lead. As ludicrous as that sounds it causes warmth to fill me. He listened.
My fingers seem to move over the keys of their own volition.
Me: I know you are busy too.
H??:I will make time for you.
