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It’s Wednesday, six-thirty A.M. Summer solstice—the longest day of the year. The sun has only been up for an hour or so, but already the dreaded Houston humidity has kicked in. I don’t mind. Not really. I hardly notice the slick cool trickles of sweat making random tracks down my back. Perspiration beads across my forehead, settles in little droplets underneath my nose and across my top lip. If I stay here much longer, I’ll melt. But I don’t intend to be here long. No, not long at all. I’m on a mission, with no time for mistakes or delays.
Sounds of summer are all around me, chirping, buzzing, leaves rustling at the barest hint of a breeze. I can tell that it’s going to be another beautiful day in Memorial Park. I sit at the far edge of the parking lot—car windows tinted as dark as the law allows are partially lowered to give me a good view of the area. From where I sit, I can see the die-hard athletes preparing for their morning run. The savvy ones go in pairs, with either a partner or a faithful, if not willing, pet. If I listen really closely, I can hear the snap-snap of a leather leash to make the less willing more so, or the crunch of a well-deserved doggie treat given after a drag around the park.
The not-so-smart single runners stretch to make themselves limber. These joggers will be moving faster than the ones who’ve paired up. They’re racing as much against the probability that they’ll be singled out for mugging as they are racing against the rising sun with its heat-sapping strength.
“Looks like it’s gonna be another scorcher.”
A bike patrol officer coasts by. The sounds of gears changing, chain rattling, draw my eye. He gives me a half nod. I nod back, then fan my face with my hand. Three months’ worth of recognition in that nod. He’s seen me here before. It only took a couple of times of me stepping out of the car, going through the motions of the runner-style stretches and warm-up exercises, before duty-honed suspicion turned to pleasant surprise at seeing me here every Wednesday so diligently.
What am I doing here? What is my mission? Certainly not to run. Diligence, yes. But not for the benefit of my own body. It’s another body that I’m waiting and watching for. It’s a body that I’ve come to know and love just as dearly as my own. Stalking is such an ugly word. And I’m sure Mr. Bike Patrol Officer wouldn’t nod so kindly to me if he thought that’s what I was doing. I prefer not to use that word. Diligent admiration sounds so much better.
I check my watch. 6:42 A.M. Three more minutes and, yes… finally. Here he comes. Right on schedule. I get back into my car and slide farther into the comfort of cloth seats trimmed in vinyl. A popular newsstand rag raised as my shield. My ears, so accustomed to the sounds of the park, pick up the one sound I’ve been waiting for.
Day-Glo orange shoestrings, leather uppers with carefully crafted rubber soles slap against the pavement in an oh-so-familiar rhythm. I’ve been listening to that sound every Wednesday for that past three months. Steady. Strong. Purposeful.
Bronze skin streaked in sweat, white tank top, navy spandex leggings and gray, boxer-style shorts worn over them flash by. His stride is long and controlled. Biceps sculpted by hours of Soloflex pump in sync with the contractions of rock-hard thighs and ultracut calves. Power. Endurance. Commitment. Ten long strides and he disappears around a bend in the path. One hour’s wait for one minute of watching. I should be disappointed, but I’m not. Not really. It’s a trade-off that I’ve come to accept after all this time. But I can’t help thinking, If only I had the power to manipulate time. What would I do if I could make time bend to my will? If I had such power, would I end world hunger? Would I command world peace? My wants are simple, but all-consuming. All I want to do is sit and watch him, over and over, until time itself gets sick of watching the same scene and changes the channel.
6:49 A.M. Still on schedule. I back out of the parking space and onto the feeder road. A U-turn under the freeway, three lights, a side street, then another parking lot. This time I’m in for a longer wait. I’ve got to give him time to stretch out the kinks, chat with his frat, and saunter back to his car.
7:20 A.M. and the flow coming out of the coffeehouse is measurably more frantic than the flow going in. Caffeine-induced energy. Get the morning started with a jolt of mocha motivation. Out of the corner of my eye I see him. Full, firm lips are clamped to a white, lidded Styrofoam cup. Enough care taken in that first sip to keep from singeing his tongue. Oh, lucky coffee cup! Flecks of sugar foam are perfectly camouflaged by a salt-and-pepper mustache. He’s got his Wednesday-morning usual—one large coffee, one small bag with a bran muffin. That will be his breakfast. Got to be good for the doctor. Got to get that cholesterol level down. Only he and I know about the extra raspberry jelly-filled donut that he’ll pinch on from about noon until the end of the day. A steady stolen supply of saturated fat and complex carbohydrates, like a glucose drip, will get him through the rest of the day with just the right edge. Only he and I know.
Secrets within secrets. He doesn’t know that I know. I keep that to myself, even as I keep my diligent admiration to myself. If only I had as much power over him as that jelly donut. If only I could be the one to feed him, to give him his sustenance. Why can’t I be the one he longs to taste? I could go down as smooth as raspberry jam. I could make him smack his lips, long for another.
8:15 A.M. and I’ve got to go if I want to get back in time for lunch. We’ve got a standing lunch date on Wednesdays—he at his table and me at mine. At the sandwich shop, a sea of green-and-white-striped umbrellas stands between us. But that has never stopped me from enjoying my meal. Neither does the lack of conversation. In my head we’ve talked for hours. I know him so well. On Wednesdays past, I imagined that I knew what he was thinking. Nibble. Nibble. Munch. Munch. Wishing there was something more appetizing than tuna on wheat for lunch. No mustard. No mayo. Only a little pepper to kill the bland, fish taste. If only he knew he could make a meal of me. Spread me, smear me with any condiment he wishes. I wouldn’t complain. I would be better than that stale jelly donut that he’s always got stashed in his bottom desk drawer. I could be there for him. And I wouldn’t even attract the ants.
8:20 A.M. The freeway is packed by now. Inch by inch, I crawl. For the first time today, I’m starting to feel a little anxious. This traffic has put a serious crimp in my plans. I’ve got a 9:30 in the Fifth Ward to touch up my roots. If I’m a minute late, I know I’m going to be six deep in the waiting room. Chantalliqua doesn’t play. When she says be there, you be there. So I get there, passing two blue-and-white squad cars—one in the process of giving someone a ticket for trying to pass up traffic in the breakdown lane and the other simply stuck between an eighteen-wheeler and an overturned cattle car.
When I arrive at the beauty shop, Chantalliqua is as chatty as ever—cussing and fussing at the high price of hair rinses, and the worsening quality of wigs and weaves, and at Erica Kane because she wouldn’t know a good man if he came long and bit her. I laugh appreciatively, but my mind isn’t on shoptalk. I can’t work up the energy to talk about some soap opera sad case that’s hours away from taking up my TV airtime. I need to figure out how I can make time with my own man.
12:05 P.M. and Chantalliqua’s got my hair looking tight and oh-so-right. I haven’t had this much body and bounce since my great aunt Bobby-Lynn used a pressing comb and big pink, foam rollers slept in overnight with a scarf, more holy than righteous, tied around my head to keep me from sweating out the straightness.
I pay Chantalliqua for her time and add a little just to keep her happy. Because everybody knows, if Chantalliqua ain’t happy, nobody’s happy. The last time she was in a snit, there were more hats and wigs coming out of her shop than you cared to count. That was known as the Great Wig-Out of Ninety-eight—a dark, dark time in the history of hair.
As I pass her the extra twenty-dollar bill, she grabs my hands and starts to inspect my nails. She clucks her tongue loudly, shaking her head. At her denouncement of the condition of my nails, you can feel the wind whip through the shop as everyone moves to hide their own hands from Chantalliqua’s field of vision. She nods her head in the direction of the chair. Oh no! I know my face is showing my dismay. Not The Chair!
It’s one thing to be trapped under a hooded hair dryer, trying to maintain conversation when it feels as though your ears are being seared and every time you try to shift positions, you wind up knocking the goosenecked dryer onto your forehead with a thunk. It’s quite another thing to sit face to face with someone who can’t stop talking while she’s filing your nails down to nubs. Even with huge box fans blowing, the smell of nail polish is so thick in your nostrils that you want to gag. But you can’t because if you open your mouth to try to breathe, Chantalliqua will take that as a sign that you’re trying to get a word in edgewise and will talk faster and longer to get in her point of view. The faster she talks, the slower she files. The slower she files, the longer you suffocate. No. Anything but The Chair.
I try to beg off. I’ve got to run. I may not make my lunch date with him, but I’ve got other errands to run. I’ve got other tasks I need to accomplish before tonight. For you see, tonight I will wait and watch no more.
On second thought, I take another look at my hands. I weigh how they look now against how they’re bound to look later. I imagine them raking themselves across his broad, bronzed back and give a shudder of disgust. Not because of him! Heaven knows, that man is way too fine to give a woman a response like that. I tremble because these chipped, cracked ends would splinter before he could utter his first moans of pleasure.
I sigh. Chantalliqua is right. She always is. Well, almost always. There was that time last summer when she convinced me to go cherry red. If only I hadn’t let her convince me that that color would be good for my dusky skin tones. I looked like an inside-out cherry cordial. After a few wisecracks from my friends and what I’m sure was one offhand, chance disapproving glance from him, you could best believe that my disposition was far from sweet. Just in case, I give Chantalliqua the go-ahead to set me up for a pedicure, too. Nothing kills the romantic mood faster than when you’re playing footsie with some doggish-looking feet.
I don’t get out of her shop until 1:45 P.M., looking good from head to toe. There’s still a few more stops to make, a few more items to get before I make this the most memorable night of his life. If only those stops were on the same side of town. Instead, he’s got me so turned around, I’m driving all over the place. He’d better appreciate all this trouble I’m going through. From the Galleria area, to the Fifth Ward, back across town to a shop in the Village. My best girl, Jolene, told me that there is a woman who sells one-of-a-kind perfumes and body oils. Jolene warned me that they were pricey but worth their weight in gold. Her man took a whiff of her new perfume and couldn’t leave her alone for the rest of the night. Personally, I can’t see how “smell my neck” would be thought of as a turn-on. But Jolene has always told it to me straight. I have to take her at her word.
I walk into the shop, completely overwhelmed. There are so many scents, my head starts to spin. How can I find the one unique scent that will drive him wild? If only I’d known that it would be this difficult to choose, I would have asked Jolene to join me.
As I wander, my eyes (not my nose) are drawn to a shelf lined with plain brown vials covered with black tops. They’re sitting in long wooden trays. A small, gold numbered sticker is placed in front of each bottle. I’m not sure if the stickers are meant to count the number of bottles or to identify each unique scent by number. My hand reaches instinctively toward a vial. Number seven. Lucky number seven. If I’m not lucky, I want to get lucky. I want to get him.
I lift the vial from its casing and unscrew the cap. Knowing how potent these perfumes are rumored to be, I wave it cautiously under my nose. Too little care, too late. I’m not prepared for this experience. All at once, all senses fire—and I’m sure, some senses spring to life that I invented right on the spot. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and certainly never from any of the bargain-basement designer knockoff scents that I’ve been known to pick up when money’s a little tight.
My heart races ahead of my breath as my head reels back. I see visions of pleasures to come, or perhaps they are memories of lives past. I can’t be sure. I’m awed by images of verdant gardens. Paradise lost and longed for. Explosions of flora and fauna of every hue swim before my eyes—crimson and cream, azure and amethyst. Colors so dazzling, they hurt my eyes to look at them. Luscious fruits so heavy with ripeness that hints of evening breezes send them plummeting to the ground. My mouth waters. I want to gather the fruits, to clutch them greedily to my chest before the lion and the lamb lying by the stream can gobble them up.
Suddenly, I see him. He is as naked as the day he is born and unashamed—unfettered by man’s modern notion of modesty. He beckons me with a crooked finger and an even more crooked smile. My mouth goes dry. He sees me. After all this time, he finally sees me!
He pours a droplet or two of the oil into the palm of his hands, warms the scent briefly between clasped hands before touching me. Pressing me back into the hollow of the earth, he works the oil, a small swipe across my forehead. An anointing. The balls of his thumbs press gently on my cheeks before trailing downward. His ebony eyes reflect total understanding as he traces the tracks of tears shed long ago. They are tears of frustration and denial. Tears of hurt and want. He wipes the traces away. Now they are tears of hope and healing. Melancholia moves from me as swiftly as the stream we lie beside.
Skilled hands continue to smooth over me, kneading the oil deeper than flesh, all the way into my soul. I become as liquid as the oil, flowing freely. He cups my breasts, then lowers his lips to them. His warm breath flows across my skin. And despite his warmth, raises gooseflesh. I tremble because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that my body won’t do justice to the tribute he pays. If only I’d used that health club membership. If only I’d passed up those second helpings of anything, everything.
Permanents and colorants, polished nails, potent per-fumes—almost two hundred dollars’ worth of artificial beauty. In our private garden, all is stripped away and it’s only me… me with the too-wide hips and the too-full lips and the less-than-trim tummy. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does? Maybe the me he’s looking at is the real me, the woman I could be for him if he would let me—if I would let myself.
“That’ll be thirty-two ninety. Would you like to pay for that with cash, check, or charge?” A sales clerk with a face too young and eyes too old touches my shoulder and jerks me back from the precipice before I can experience total free flight. I can almost read her thoughts. You break. You buy. With her cruel interruption, more devastating than coitus interruptus, she doesn’t break the spell of the scent—only postpones it.
My hand trembles as I try to replace the vial, but I’ve already unleashed the genie. Unlike Pandora, I’m proud of what I’ve done. I have to have it. I have to have him!
3:30 P.M. By the time I make it home, it’ll be almost five o’clock. For him, it’s quitting time. For me, the real work begins. As I set my packages by the door, I weigh the pros and cons of a quick shower against a long, lingering bath. A shower would quickly rinse away the heat and grime of the day. But the moisture in the air would destroy my ninety-dollar ’do. After all of the effort Chantalliqua put into it, I would never be able to set foot into her shop again. I’d be shunned as an outcast, forever known as the woman who killed Chantalliqua’s curls.
A bath would relax me. But I don’t want to relax. If I soak in that tub, I would melt away my backbone. This is no time to back out now. I’m on a mission. So I fill my tub with cool water. I place a few drops of the body oil into the water, swirl it around and around until I see a million tiny droplets floating on top. Slowly I lower myself into the water and clench my teeth in mild protest. It’s liquid ice. Not unlike I imagined the stream in our private garden to be. Cupping my hands, I gather water inside them, raise them toward the ceiling, and let the water trickle down again. A silent libation. This is for the brother who isn’t here.
5:15 P.M. I smooth the emulsified water over my shoulders, down my arms, and over my belly. I massage in a circle, imagining this is how I’d do it if only I could be with his child. Over, under, and between my thighs, down the shins and under the instep of my pedicured feet. I’ve got every inch covered. A little longer to soak. 5:21 and I’ve got to go to him. I’ve got to go for him. I step out of the tub, forgoing a towel to let the artificial breeze generated by air conditioner and ceiling fan dry me. They can’t cool me. I’m on fire. They can’t compare to the breezes of our private garden. But for now, they’ll have to do. I’ve run out of time.
I enter the bedroom where I’ve spent weeks, days, and hours scheming and dreaming. And now, it all comes down to this moment. A quick flick of a butane lighter and candles by my bedside send their scent wafting on the air. I lie across my bed and close my eyes—waiting.
Six-fifteen P.M. An engine purrs, then falls silent. A car door slams. Size fourteen Stacey Adams clomp across the cobbled pavement of the drive, then disappear in a whishing hiss as they cross the grass on the way to the front door. Keys jingle. Door squeaks. Thud-thud. It’s not the beating of my frightened, faithful heart, but the sound of a briefcase falling to the floor.
6:20 P.M. Sun sets on the longest day of my life. The last rays of day slide across the floor.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” Words whispered, soft, sweet and low. I tremble, because I know they are meant for my ears only.