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“Well, I do know that. But thanks for shouting it out for everyone to hear, you asshole.”
I take the pile from her arms and walk over to the register. “All of it,” I tell the woman manning the counter.
“I can pay for my own shit.” Kalilah tries to nudge me out of the way with her hip, but I don’t go anywhere. I tap my card before she can even reach for hers and smile at the sales assistant, who is eyeing us with a soft look.
Kalilah turns and storms out without even grabbing her bags.
I swipe them off the counter and hurry out after her, following her into a cell phone store.
“You need a phone?” I ask.
“Yes. I gave work a fake number. They said they tried to call, and a man answered. So I need one so I can tell them the right number before they figure out I lied and lose my damn job.”
A sales assistant starts running through the phone options with Kalilah. She seems confused as to what to get. It’s as if she hasn’t owned one in an incredibly long time which is strange.
“We’ll take that one.” I point to the newest one—a touch screen that should be easy for her to use. It’s the same one I have. When the sales assistant walks away, Kalilah side-eyes me.
“I can’t afford that one,” she whispers, embarrassed.
“I can,” I reply, heading to the counter and paying for it.
When I’m done, I walk back to find her exactly where I left her. She seems lost in thought like she can’t work anything out that’s happening around her. Her golden eyes are shining, and she shakes her head when I repeat her name a few times and then ask, “What’s wrong?”
Kalilah turns and walks out of the store.
Now I’m left carrying three of her bags.
She stops at a bench and sits down, leans forward, and places her head in her hands.
I take a seat cautiously next to her. “Do you need instructions to breathe? Because I’m going to be honest, I’m usually the one to stop someone breathing, not show them how.”
She turns her head in her hands and looks at me with a soft smile touching her lips.
“What’s wrong?” I repeat.
“It makes me uncomfortable that you do that.” She waves her hand to the material possessions in the bags.
“Why? Women love gifts.”
“Is that what those are…gifts? Or entrapment?” she whispers.
“No, they’re gifts,” I say, confused.
“The last man who bought me gifts,” she uses air quotes, “took them away just as quickly.”
“The husband,” I state, and Kalilah nods.
“I haven’t had a phone since we were married. He took that as well.”
“How did you get by?”
“What do you mean? With him or the phone? I didn’t need a phone because I never went anywhere or had any friends. As for him, I did everything for him,” she says like it’s obvious. “And now this,” she waves her hands around the bags, “makes me uncomfortable.”
“Okay. You can come and clean my room as payment.” Before she can say anything, I hold up a finger and add, “Naked, preferably.”
“Your room is already clean. You’re a clean freak,” she says.
Yes, that is true. There’s no denying it.
