After I compose the initial rough draft of my last blog entry, I reread it several times, debating whether or not I should proceed with submitting it. Before I wrote it, I replayed all of the dates I had been on and reread the previously published blog entries. It dawns on me that my selection could’ve been any of the three women I went out with, if the first dates were any indication. My date with Sarah had gone well. Part of me had even considered calling it a day right then. After all, what was the point in going out on the other dates if I already had someone I could get along with? But then there was my date with Taylor, and she showed equal promise. Frankly, Taylor wasn’t the type of woman I had ever really thought I would date, but I felt that there was something there beneath it all, definitely something worth exploring. Even Rochelle had some potential initially, although I don’t know how much of that date was really genuine on her end.
But just as quickly as those situations had bubbled with potential, they all popped in my face.
As I finish reviewing this final blog entry for the umpteenth time, I close my laptop. I don’t want to send it out just yet. I still have a day before the deadline, but I already know what I want to say. The only thing I want to do now is see Denise one more time. What she thinks of this is more important to me now than it has ever been before.
It’s nearly five o’clock in the evening when Denise returns my call. I’m surprised at how nervous I am when I hear her voice. I want to ask her if I crossed her mind today or if she thought about last night as much as I have, but instead I play the cool role, hoping to live up to my name.
“Sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you,” she starts.
“That’s no problem. I know how it is when things get hectic.”
I decide to push on the conversation a little. “I really enjoyed myself last night.”
She chuckles under her breath. “I had a good time, too—much better than I should have.”
“Don’t say that,” I respond. “You deserve to have as much fun as you can stand.”
“If only it were that simple.”
“It really is that simple.”
We sit silently on the phone for a few seconds before I start to speak again. “We should get together again.”
“And do what?”
I wonder if she is tempting me or distancing herself. “I just want to be around you.”
“Awe, isn’t that sweet,” she says playfully. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea though.”
“It’s funny that you would say that. I’ve been thinking about last night, and I wanted to talk with you about the connection we made.”
She sighs. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea either.”
“We can just get together to talk. I promise we can keep it simple and platonic. I just want to see you again,” I say. I hate to plead, but at this point I’m not above it.
“I have to go to an event tonight down near Union Square. I have an extra pass if you want to go with me.”
I have to hold my knee down to keep it from bouncing beneath the counter. I want to blurt, “Hell yes, I’ll meet you,” but I tone it down several notches and just say, “That sounds good.”
She gives me the address and time, and I let J know that I have to head out early yet again, but thankfully Ray-Ray is here tonight until closing.
J only offers one note of advice: “Make sure this is the situation you really want to be in, because one night of drinking, in and of itself, does not constitute grounds for a relationship.”
I nod, knowing that while he’s correct, the butterflies in my stomach are already far ahead of me.
I arrive early to Union Square and decide to wander through Barnes & Noble to occupy myself. Everything reminds me of Denise, though, and I wonder how I came to be captivated with her so quickly. Even as I think back, I realize that I was drawn to her the moment I saw her. I tried to ignore it since we were both pieces of a business transaction, but I don’t think I ever really stopped taking notice of her in the subtle ways that one does when he shouldn’t be looking at all. Even when I walked out on her at Blockheads, I was kicking myself the moment I did it. But the deal was closed at BBQ’s. I wanted to be close to her, to touch her and be touched by her. The first kiss was what summoned the idea that there could possibly be more between us, but the second kiss made me want her in a way that I haven’t wanted a woman in quite some time.
I walk to the magazine rack and find myself gravitating toward the latest issue of Soul Sista magazine with Janet Jackson on the cover. I flip to the masthead page just so I can see her name in print: Denise Mallory, Lifestyle Editor. My stomach starts to turn flips just looking at it, and I realize that I’m just being damned ridiculous about my infatuation with her.
I sent out my blog entry, which details my growing and ultimate attraction to Denise, moments before I caught a cab down here. I have no idea of whether or not she will have checked her work email before I see her, but if she has, I will at least be in a position to explain why I wrote what I wrote. Part of me thinks that the idea for my entry alone is absurd, because it defies the expectations of the readers in a number of ways, mainly because Denise was not one of their selections and because I’ve never written a single thing about any of the outings (which can’t rightfully be called dates) that I have experienced with her. I figure the worst that could happen is that Soul Sista will just refuse to publish my blog entry, but at least I will have, from a professional perspective, delivered to them what they requested of me. It’s not my fault that what I’ve written might fall outside of their expectations.
I put the magazine back on its rack and find a seat where I can check my e-mail and mess around with a few apps on my smart phone. After a while, I want to stand and stretch my legs again, so I walk around the bookstore, browsing the spines of books by my favorite authors, ones that I already have in my personal library at the bat cave. After I have walked around each of the four levels, I glance at my watch and see that the time I was supposed to meet Denise is quickly approaching. I take the escalator down to the first floor, thinking to myself that I should’ve brought flowers with me or something.
I’m only on the corner for about ten minutes before a cab pulls up, dropping her off across the street from me. As she rises from the cab and smooths out her black mini-skirt, I admire her shapely hips and the way the fabric embraces her form. Everything about her is proportioned and perfectly fit. Though I try to push away the thought of being intimate with her, I know that she could love me down in a way that would leave me fantasizing about her hours—maybe days— afterwards.
“Sorry I’m running late,” she offers, as she crosses the street.
“Not a problem,” I say. “I just got here myself.” Reaching in my backpack, I take out a small bag. “I have something for you.”
“Really?” She takes the paper bag and opens it. She begins to laugh. “I almost forgot about this,” she says, a smile spreading across her face. The twinkle of her smile is like a soft feather being stroked beneath my navel, and I can feel the butterflies fluttering within.
“I told you I was going to give you one. And you said that you would wear it if I did,” I say, happy to see her holding up the C&J’s Rare Grooves t-shirt and admiring it.
“Pink?” she asks, her voice full of humor. “I look like a pink kind of girl to you?”
“Actually you look like a beautiful woman who could wear pink just as easily as she could any other color.”
“Aren’t you a smooth talker,” she says.
I watch as she puts the t-shirt back in the bag. Secretly I would love to see her in that t-shirt—and nothing else.
“Do I get a hug or anything?” I ask. “After all, I brought you a t-shirt all the way from Harlem.”
She laughs and says, “Of course.”
She leans in and embraces me, and I hold her, allowing myself to enjoying the soft feel of her chest pressing against me. Before I release her, I lean in to kiss her, but she turns her face giving me a solid cheek.
“Whoa,” I respond, feeling as if I got kicked in the chest. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”
She looks at me as if she is embarrassed by the situation. “I just think we should keep everything professional, you know.”
I’m at a loss for words as I consider this, and I wonder if I have done something to upset this delicate balance that we’ve established. In my mind, I’ve been cool and nonintrusive, patient, and far from clingy. Suddenly, it dawns on me that she probably hasn’t read my email yet.
When I’m finally able to find the words, I say, “Denise, if I did something to rub you the wrong way, please let me know.”
“You didn’t do anything. Last night was just a bit extra for me.”
Please don’t blame it on the alcohol, I think to myself.
“I might have had too many drinks and let things go too far,” she continues.
Shit.
I reach for anything. “Well, can I ask you a question?”
She looks like she would rather do anything else, but she agrees, probably because she knows that she just dissed me and delivered a bomb to me all within two minutes of our meeting.
“Denise, are you attracted to me?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Could you please answer that question for me?” I say, trying to steady myself.
“Yes. Of course I am. You are a very attractive man,” she responds.
“And do you think that we get along well?”
“Well enough for what?” she says, shifting the burden to me.
“Well enough to spend more time getting to know each other,” I say, attempting to sound unfazed.
She shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts. People move around us, and there is a line beginning to form at the door to the club a few yards down the block.
“Cool,” she finally says, “what do you want from me?”
I inhale deeply and pace my words. “I want to get to know you better.”
“Know me better how?”
“In the way that a man and woman get to know each other when they realize they have chemistry.”
She smiles, but not in that affectionate way. She seems increasingly bothered with my line of questions, but I feel like I am unable to let the situation get dismissed so easily. I’ve always been a person to fight for the things I wanted, and if she’s going to shoot me down, I want her to do it in a way that removes all hope from the table so I can try to shake her from my thoughts.
“Cool, you’re a nice enough guy, but we can’t do this. Maybe my inviting you here tonight wasn’t such a good idea.”
The sting is so hard that I realize whatever I say to her next will clearly affect not only our evening, but any future involvement we have with each other.
“Okay. But can I say one last thing, and I promise after this I will not bother you with anything else.”
She nods.
“I never asked for any of this—these dates or this blog or even this situation of us standing here talking about all of this right now, but I understand that we all make decisions and life just happens in the meantime. I didn’t know you would creep into my dreams or that you would find some magical way of knocking me off my feet. And then you kissed me. And I know it’s easy to stand back and blame it all on the drinks, but I believe that drinks bring out the truth, not the lies. I know I was intoxicated, but it wasn’t off of the liquor. It was off of you. Now I can’t shake the thoughts of your lips pressed against mine, the sweet music of your voice, the way you smile. Now all I do is dream about you.”
She smiles. “You are so corny.”
I can’t tell if she is joking or not. Her smile doesn’t tell me either way. I wait patiently, hoping for some clarification.
“Every Stevie Wonder song in the book?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“You just used all of these Stevie Wonder songs to describe me. Am I supposed to be your Stevie Wonder lyric girl?” she asks, her voice still ambiguous.
“I swear I didn’t know I was doing that, but now that you mention it, you are my Stevie Wonder lyric. You are my choice.”
She lowers her head and looks away. “What if I don’t want to be your choice?”
“Then I’ll leave you alone and never bother you again. I’ve already sent you my blog entry, and you are the one I pick. If you want to run it, fine. If not, I will understand. All I want is the chance to get to know you better.”
The line at the door continues to move as the club begins admitting people with the proper passes. Denise looks in the direction of the door. I can sense that she is ready to go in, but there is nothing in her look that is inviting me to accompany her.
“I know you’ve got to go do your job, and I know I just dropped a lot on you just now,” I say. “And I know you probably need some space right now.”
Her eyes are piercing, and for the first time, I realize that I have made a huge mistake.
“What gave you the right to write about me? Huh? You were given specific instructions. I even went out on a line for you—repeatedly—this entire time. And this is the way you repay me? By making me some kind of spectacle for my own readers?”
“That’s not what I was trying to do,” I say. “I just wanted to tell the truth about how I felt.”
She looks at me, gnawing slightly on her inner cheek. “Damn, Cool! Is everything about what you want?”
I want to say “no,” but I don’t think I should say anything. She is more upset than I expected she would be, and frankly, I don’t know what to do.
“I’ve got a job to do now,” she says, turning and walking away.
I want to call out after her, but my words, once so sure, betray me. I can only watch her as she heads into the club, alone.