Inside the Meet in Paris bistro in Culver City, the minister enjoyed the grilled wild salmon and Chaka devoured the mussels a la Madrid, along with a glass of a white Bordeaux, which she had come to crave. Somewhere around coffee, the conversation turned personal.
“How’re the girls?” the minister asked while slowly turning his cappuccino cup counterclockwise in its china saucer, ignoring the coffee inside.
“They’re both well. Cantara thinks she’s going to be the next Mo’ne Davis and Fanny will be the first Black girl from her school to compete in the National Science Decathlon.”
“They’re amazing,” Kublai Khan said and pursed his lips.
The best moments of his childhood had been spent in Briggs Stadium. He fondly remembered climbing the steel stairs to the right field seats in the upper deck. There his father acted more like a kid than a military-police vet or a hard-nosed auto mechanic. Together they’d spent hours watching, listening to, and playing baseball—at least, until a stubborn ankle injury had made a little boy’s dream vanish like the dry ice that kept his rum raisin ice cream frozen until the seventh-inning stretch.
He remembered dreams. He wouldn’t tell Chaka what he thought of them.
“Are you satisfied with the logistics for the weddings?” he asked, straightening his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“The numbers are better than expected. Thanks to the thousands of men coming from The House and Reverend Hung’s bride projections, it’s all on point.”
“That’s more than six thousand marriages and nearly five thousand births in less than a year?” he asked.
“The latest status report will provide the details,” said Chaka as she played with her silver Burberry New Classic bracelet watch. “The plan is to work with the operational crew at The Forum to manage everything, from the lanyards to a gold corsage on every bride. I got this, honorable minister.” She smirked up at him and reached for the silver tray that contained the lunch bill. “My treat.”
She placed a black bankcard on the tray and passed it to a nearby waitress.
“You know, The House owes us a million two,” she continued, “and we’re about to pay for another round of media that makes five million more. It’s time we got paid.” She leaned forward on her elbows and stared into the minister’s eyes.
Kublai Khan gave her a diplomatic nod.
“Of course,” he said. “I will look into the matter. There must still be some …I mean…I will…look into the situation…I mean…I promise to have you a check by Friday…end of business.” He gave up on trying to speak and looked up toward the ceiling fan. This woman put a spell on him.
Chaka smiled.
“Thanks. The money is just fuel for the engine. We got to keep it humming.” She leaned back, pumping her shoulders and arms in a circular motion like pistons in a racecar. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Good. I’ll check in with you about the money when I get back to Detroit. Thanks for lunch.” Khan said as he looked into his wallet and resorted his cash so each bill fitted neatly underneath the spring bar that held the ones, fives, tens, twenties, and hundreds in ascending order. He tried not to think about Chaka’s smile.
Kublai Khan paused on his way out to thank the bistro’s owner for his hospitality and promise to dine there again soon. He felt eyes on him as he took Chaka’s arm and they paraded out, wearing their designer clothes and sable skin like priceless accessories. Outside, the aggressive daytime paparazzi snapped pictures; anyone with their kind of presence had to be worth money to the tabloids. Ahmed pushed through the crowd, giving them a lane to the town car, and they were gone.
Kim came to love the stories of biracial women on mochagirls.com. She made herself an account within a week of discovering it and posted journal entries several times a week. Then she posted an entry on Valentine’s Day.
“This is just like any other day, except for the fear I have that it could become my future. Being alone without someone in my life to lead me. Maybe one day I’ll find the guy who likes to walk through farmers’ markets, or eat hot dogs and pretzels at The Grove before taking in a good zombie flick. I don’t think that is too much to ask. Someone who will love me and lead me into happiness.”
She was startled when a comment from a new user popped up.
“Hot dogs and zombie flicks? That sounds like a great Saturday night. It’s not too much to ask for, it’s just enough.”
The screen name was HipHop4ever.
She sent a private message: a smiley face, followed by a “Hi, I’m Kim.”
She got a smile back. “I’m Ahmed.”
Over the next few months, they wrote about classic horror films and finding the world’s best bratwurst in Los Angeles. Soon they were exchanging texts about seeing each other in real life.
“There’s a chance that seeing you would be a good thing, but I don’t want to spoil things by showing my ugly side,” Kim wrote. “I can be a real witch sometimes.”
“Wait until you meet Nana Rey. She’s a piece of work. So what happens when you’re witchy?”
Kim shook her head and typed, “I let my mouth get my butt in trouble.”
“So tell me about your butt? Round? Flat or Just enough?”
Kim chuckled and made her decision. “That’s silly. You can decide for yourself.”
“When?”
“What about shoe shopping? Tonight?”
Kim bit her lip as the system lagged, but the answer popped up.
“I’d love to. Shoes are my jam!”
“How bout boots at Nordstrom’s at The Grove?”
“I may be a simple guy, but I have great taste in women’s shoes.”
“Is this a date?” Kim held her breath.
“I guess so.”
“Then it’s a date. Meet you by the fountain at eight.”
It was a summer evening at The Grove. The restaurants were bustling with shoppers of all ethnic groups and income demos. The street vendors peddled their wares with reckless abandon: oversized sunglasses, cheesy baseball caps, and rubberized smartphone cases. Well-washed and perfumed women guided bugaboo strollers with their precious cargo strapped carefully inside. The classic four-tiered fountain trickled water into pools of large, colorful koi fish below.
Kim waited by the ice-cream stand in the center of the outdoor plaza and noticed that the movie theater was featuring a horror film she wanted to see. She knew that shoe shopping plus a hot dog and a movie was too much for a first date. Ahmed’s profile image looked like the athletes she remembered from high school—he was muscular with dark brown skin and kept his hair and mustache closely trimmed. She guessed he might be on the shorter side.
Kim turned around to watch a young Hispanic couple with a bigheaded boy waddling toward her. Then she saw Ahmed, walking just to the child’s left. He smiled broadly, and when he met her eyes, he started walking faster.
He was carrying a bouquet of freshly cut flowers. They looked at each other up close for the first time. Ahmed reached in for a friendly peck on the cheek and a polite hug. Not too much to ask for from a girl that he was talking to, texting, and emailing for four months. She pecked back.
“Hello, Kimberly. I’m Ahmed Reynolds, your personal shopper.”
It was a good opening.
“Hello, Mr. Reynolds. It’s so great to meet you. They say you’re a shoe and boot specialist?”
“Yes, I am. I’m looking forward to showing you the best of our collection.”
Kimberly broke the pretense with a laugh. “Okay, Ahmed, enough shop talk. You look just like your pictures. But wouldn’t it be weirder if you didn’t?”
“I could have sent you a picture of Denzel instead,” he pointed out. “Now that would be weird.”
They stood nose-to-nose, holding hands unconsciously. Kim thought it was the best start ever to a first date. She turned toward the stores and gently released her hand from his.
“Shall we get started at Nordstrom’s?” Ahmed asked as he led her down a path where pricey stores surrounded a tiny patch of greenery in the asphalt-and-glass wonderland. He kept eye contact gently, invaded her space, and leaned close enough to smell her scent. Not in a creepy way, Kim thought—just like he enjoyed her presence.
“Follow me, Ms. Solberg. I know just the right pair to start our search.”
They listened to the sounds of popular music spilling over the courtyard as they headed off on an arduous search for boots. They boarded the burgundy passenger tram that circled the shopping center and farmers’ market. Ahmed held out his hand to help Kimberly up the steps of the train. They moved past shoppers who walked, ate, drank, and licked their way through the commercial paradise. Kimberly felt a cool breeze as she nuzzled up under Ahmed’s arm. His hold was gentle but firm, like her life depended on it. Kimberly felt she was in the right space with the perfect guy.
Kimberly watched the people moving about and noticed the train was heading west.
“Are we going in the right direction? Isn’t Nordstrom’s that way?” Kim said as she pointed behind the tram, toward the bright signage of the department store.
“Oh?” Ahmed started and then sat back in his seat, his face cheeks darkening with a blush-moistened from perspiration. “Look at that. My bad.”
“No bad. It’s all good,” Kim said, and she stood up and pulled Ahmed off the tram behind her. In two steps, they were running and laughing in the right direction.
