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Brunch goes smoothly, just like I knew it would. We have mimosas, bacon, eggs, blueberry pancakes and toast. Now, we’re at my place and since I live in a studio apartment, I set up the canvas in the kitchen to give us a little room. However, instead of painting, she’s more interested in the designs I painted on the wall.
“You did all of this?” she asks while I open the acrylics.
“I did.”
“What inspired you to go nuts and paint all of your walls?”
“I had to give the place some flavor. White walls are boring.”
She turns to look at me when she says, “In your opinion.”
I shrug.
“White walls can be dressed up with different pictures and designs.”
“Or you can just paint them like I did.”
“Right.”
I walk over and stand next to her as she gazes upon my work. I want to take her hand in mine but I let her look around, undisturbed and admire my handiwork. I think she’s impressed.
I return to the kitchen and take two bottles of water from the fridge. Then I stand behind the counter and take the time to admire her. She’s wearing a pair of blue jeans and a white blouse that ties in the front, creating a bow at her neckline. She has on five-inch black heels, making her appear taller. Big, gold hoops hang from her ears. Her lips are the color of temptation – her favorite color apparently. She’s stunning.
She turns around and looks at me.
“Hi. Remember me?” I quip.
She smiles. “It’s your fault for painting these walls like this. They’re the highlight of the show. I was too mad to see them when I came over here a few weeks back.”
“A few weeks...oh, you mean when Nia was over here after the Caspian thing blew up.”
“Yep. Still can’t believe she betrayed me like that, though.”
“Betrayed—like I said before, I’ve known her longer.”
She mouths what I just said and rolls her eyes. I see the smirk on her face and the way her cheeks form into a beautiful smile.
I say, “Come on over here so you can get schooled.”
She takes off her shoes before she walks over to me. “Okay. Where do you want me?”
My eyes drop to her lips. Where do you want her? Jeez. I can’t tell if the question was intentional or innocent.
“Turn around so I can tie this smock around you.”
She turns around and I’m met by a waft of her sweet perfume. I tie on the smock and then close my arms around her and with my lips brushing against her neck, I say, “Are you ready to make a masterpiece?”
Her body jumps, and was that a whimper I heard?
“Yeah. I’m ready,” she says.
“You smell good. I almost don’t want to let you go.”
“You need to, now come on. Let’s get crackin’ on this painting.”
I release her and hand her a brush. Then, standing behind her, I hold her wrist to guide her movements like I did the last time we attempted to paint.
“I went by your old neighborhood earlier this morning to get a feel for the kind of houses on that street. I mean, I have an idea. I just wanted it to be fresh in my mind.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Now I know what to do with this painting.”
She wiggles her arm from my grasp, turns around and asks, “Why did you do that?”
“What? Go by the neighborhood?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because this is our first picture together. I want it to be perfect and memorable. Plus, it’s important to you. Therefore, it’s important to me.”
She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “That’s sweet. I’ve never had someone go above and beyond for me like that.”
“I’d go to the moon and back for you, Jamila.”
She looks at me and raises one brow slightly as if she doesn’t believe my statement and I can understand that. She doesn’t know what I know. I’ve never been head over heels for any woman before her and I won’t be that way after. It’s only her that I want to have this feeling for – that I want to do things for.
I hand her a brush. “Alright. I’m going to paint with you this time. Just do what I do. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m ready.”
I use small strokes to outline a silver roof on the house.
She asks, “Why is the roof silver?”
“Just to give it some nostalgia. Houses back in the day used to have tin roofs. Can you imagine how pleasant it sounded in a rainstorm?”
“Yeah. I bet it’s therapeutic.”
“It is. When I buy a house, I’m going to request a tin roof. I can picture myself sitting on a screened porch drinking coffee, listening to the rain pattering on the roof while inhaling the earthy smell of rainwater. It will be nice.”
“Yeah, it would be,” she says. She dips the brush in the gray paint again and paints more small strokes for the roof.
“Don’t go so heavy with the paint. Make the strokes lighter.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s much easier to work with paint from light to dark than from dark to light. If you go too dark, you’ll have to use water and maybe even some white paint to brighten it up. If you go lighter, you won’t have that issue. You’ll gradually increase the darkness as you see fit.”
“Oh! Okay. I get it.”
“Also, since most of the houses over there are white, what I do to capture that is mix some grey with white so that it’s visible on the canvas. After you finish the roof, you can use this bigger brush to do that.”
She doesn’t respond, probably because she’s really getting into the painting of the roof. I’m impressed that she’s taking it seriously.
“Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
“Good. I’ma stand back and watch you work.”
I study her strokes and the way she moves her hand while she paints. It’s like she’s speaking to me via this canvas. Never in a million years would I have imagined this, but here she is, painting and being guided by yours truly. She’s a work of art while she’s creating one.
“So, tell me, Jamila. When was your last real relationship?”
“There you go again, trying to find out all of my business.”
She chose another brush and used the paint I mixed for the lighter gray brushstrokes for the roof. She responds, “I was with a guy for a couple of years. We hit it off and we were making plans for the future—”
She dips the brush in paint and continues, “I met his parents and he was comfortable with my folks to the point that we took vacations together and all that. He was the man I was going to be with and everybody knew it. Then, one day he told me he was going to be out of town for work. The only thing is, I had left work that day for an appointment and saw him walking down the street, holding hands with another woman.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah—I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It’s like, in the moment, I was temporarily paralyzed, but I snapped out of it and told myself I wasn’t dreaming. This was real. So, I stopped right there in the road, put on my hazard lights, got out and confronted him right there. He hurried up and snatched his hand away from the woman then took off running.”
“No way.”
“I can’t make this stuff up. He literally ran away from the scene like a criminal who just robbed a bank or something. So, later when I got off work, I went by his place. There was no sign of his car or nothing. I called his phone—no answer. The next day—it was a Saturday—he called me and said he’d just got back from his trip and he’d be over at my place. I said I don’t know what kind of game you’re trying to play here, but you will not be coming to my house. Why don’t you go back and walk with your lil’ girlfriend down the street? Of course he acted like he had no idea what I was talking about.”
“Did you just make this up?”
“No, I didn’t. I know it sounds farfetched, but it happened. When he realized I wasn’t buying his story, he didn’t have much to say. I was so done. And what’s crazy is, I didn’t even think he had it in him. I was so blind—so caught off guard. He was one of those tech guys—very intelligent—and I never would’ve thought he would do something like that to me. It taught me that I can’t trust anyone. It doesn’t matter if the man comes from a good family, if he looks like a nerd or whatever.”
She lowers the brush and continues, “Since then, I’ve been solo and loving it. There’s no stress, no having to check up on somebody to make sure they’re doing what they’re supposed to be doing—none of that. I just get up, go to work, come back home and do it all over again the next day with no worries.”
“So, that’s it? That’s the life you want for yourself?”
She shrugs. “Well, no, but what other choice did I have?”
“You’re the person in charge of your life, Jamila. It would be highly unreasonable to allow some idiot to derail your plans for your life. You’re too beautiful and smart to let that happen. I say move on. There are men out here who know how to be faithful. Case in point.”
She raises a brow. “So, you’re the answer to my prayers, huh?” she quips.
“You said it, not me,” I say then chuckle a little. “But for real though—I know who I am. I know what I stand for. I would never betray someone I love.”
She takes a step back from the painting to judge how it looks so far and then says, “I’m sure when Judas signed on to be an apostle, he never thought he’d betray Jesus and we all know how that turned out. So, it’s one thing to say what you won’t do, but the minute somebody dangles thirty pieces of silver in your face, it’s a wrap.”
“I hear you. Trust me, I do, but I think you have to give people a chance to show you who they are without prejudging them. That would be like saying this painting won’t turn out right and you haven’t even finished it yet.”
“Okay, you have a point, Morgan David, but unfortunately for you, my Mama told me never to trust a man with two first names.”
I chuckle. “Why’s that?”
“She said it’s because you don’t know who you are. It’s like an identity crisis. Are you Morgan or are you David?” She laughs.
“My professors had the hardest time with that,” I say, taking the brush with the light gray paint on it and painting more strokes on the canvas.
“I bet they did.”
“They just called me David and I was cool with that.”
I focus on the painting and make an effort to help paint it into something beautiful. She’s focused as well, painting shutters while I give the windows some definition.
She stands back again and says, “Wow.”
“Yeah, we’re doing a good job together.”
“We are.”
“This is a good stopping point.”
“Okay. Good. Look at ya girl becoming one of y’all artistic people. Nia would be proud.”
“Yeah, she would. It’s about time you added some culture into your life.”
“Is that right?” she asks walking to the sink. She turns on the water and takes a pump of soap, scrubbing paint from her hands. It’s only a little but she’s scrubbing like there’s no tomorrow.
I walk up behind her and say, “Be careful not to take your skin off with that.”
She smiles. “Yes, sir.” She snatches a piece of paper towel and turns around to look at me while she wipes her hands.
I close my arms around her and say, “ I hope you had a good time tonight.”
“I did. This was nice.”
“Good.” I glance at her lips and ask, “May I kiss you?”
“You didn’t ask before,” she says. “Why are you asking now?”
“I just felt compelled to. I don’t want to be presumptuous. As far as I know, you may still hate my guts.”
“I used to hate your guts. Now, I think I might like you just a little, tiny bit—heavy on the tiny.”
A smirk spreads across my lips. “Hey, I’ll take what I can get.”
I inch closer to her and take a small kiss from her lips and when she’s receptive, I go deeper, kissing her tenderly. Passionately. I kiss her while knowing that she’s fragile – broken by her past and with every stroke of my tongue, I’m hoping I can stroke her into believing that a man like me can be faithful to her. Not all men are like her ex. So I paint my truth on her. My tongue is the brush and her mouth is the canvas. I paint until an image of her – of us – is clear in my mind.
She moans.
I’m in awe of even that. A moan.
It’s music to my ears as it paints an impression on my heart.
I pull away and meet her dilated pupils and say, “Okay. Let’s get you home.”
“What if I’m not ready to go home?”
I’m not quite sure if this is a test, or—
“What do you mean? You want to paint some more, or—?”
“No, I don’t want to paint. Let’s just chill.”
I wasn’t expecting her to be in chill mode. I didn’t have anything planned beyond the painting, but sometimes the best times are had without any plans being involved. I take a bottle of wine from the fridge and grab a couple of glasses and we head over to the sofa. I pour glasses, then reach for the remote.
“No, we don’t need to watch TV.” She folds one leg beneath the other and takes her wine glass from the table before sitting down.
“No?”
“No. We’re good. Let’s just chill and talk.”
“Okay. The floor is yours.”
“So, what’s up with you? I mean, you’re out here living your dream and whatnot. What kind of woman will it take to make you put all of this behind?”
“Put all of what behind?”
“Painting. Being an artist. Like, do you not want a family one day?”
“What does me having a family have to do with being an artist?”
She shrugs. “It’s not necessarily a profitable career.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know. I don’t feel like it’s stable money. I hear artists talking about how they have to live on nothing until they sell a painting or something.”
“Jamila, I made six figures last year.”
“What?” she asked, her eyes widening in shock.
“Yes. I make money. I just like living simple. What’s the use in making money and then going out and blowing it all trying to live lavishly? I’m only in the business of impressing people with my paintings—not by the way I live my life.”
“I see.” She takes another sip of wine. “I do think it’s great that you live your passion. I don’t have one. I work in business—I think that’s it for me. I’ve never been good at being creative or doing anything unique.”
“No?”
“I believe everyone is born with some sort of creative talent.”
“Then I guess you will have to help me find mine.”
She stretches to reach the table where she attempts to place her glass but in the process, her right leg extends so her foot touches my thigh. I automatically touch it and then I secure her ankle and pull her closer to me while she giggles.
“What are you doing?”
“This,” I say before sliding my tongue into her mouth and kissing her. At the same time, I pull her even closer until she’s straddling me, taking the lead in the kiss now like she’s in control. I follow her lead, tasting her lips when she wants me to and falling back when she falls back.
She smiles – looks at me and smiles.
“You know what I can’t believe?” she asks.
“What’s that?”
“I cannot believe I’m here with you like this.”
“I can. I knew you liked me. You were just trying to play hard to get.”
“Excuse me?” she says, trying to look serious but can’t wipe that grin off of her face.
I slide my hand beneath her blouse and stroke her back with the very tips of my fingers and her whole body jerks. She grabs my wrist and says, “Slow your role. I’m not a chick that goes on a date with a guy twice and we end up in bed together.”
“I know you’re not. That’s not what I’m looking for, Jamila.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“A wife.”
“A wife?” she asks, her eyes dancing from my eyes to my lips.
“Yes. I want something real. Someone I can share my life and my talents with. Travel the world with. See the beauty of the planet. I want a woman who can make me fall more in love with life. Someone I can paint with, discover new adventures, and meals and movies.”
“That’s nice. I hope you find her,” she says, then leans forward and kisses me again. She pulls away shortly after, denying me a long kiss and says, “It’s time for me to get home now.