Michael wakes up to the symphonic sounds of roadwork and car horns. The bright light of the sun flashes into his eyes, turning the inside of his eyelids a glow of orange. He lies on Belle’s bed. He is submerged in her scent, covering every part of him as if he were taken to the river and baptized. He stretches out his arms to the space across the bed and remembers she is not there. He recalls watching her as she dressed in the morning, the silk garb that flowed against her skin, her curls wild and free, her transformation from something divine to something human, taking the form of those whom she walks among. She stopped to stare at him, standing above him, over the bed, like some otherworldly visitation, until she was no longer there.
Last night was a blur, but all he can see in his mind is her; an image of her, like a Renaissance painting, sprawled out on the bed with the formerly clean white sheets wrapped around her. Last night was a blur, save the moment when the senses came alive by the heat of her touch, the harmony of her sound, the intensity of her stare while he bowed on his knees before her, while he covered her, like the constellations above cover us. Belle. He wishes time would stop. Rather, that it did not exist at all; that it could be suspended in that moment, to be repeated again, and again, and again.
Michael wakes up again and feels himself sink deeper into the comfort of the mattress; his body like driftwood floating on the water, drifting into pieces. After a long bath, Michael gets dressed and makes himself breakfast. He finishes the food and sits on the sofa in the living room and waits. He imagines a role reversal, a “Honey, I’m home,” as she enters; he jumps up with excitement to ask her how her day was and let her know that dinner will soon be ready. It feels like something he could quickly get used to.
Michael chooses a random book from her shelf. And sees a few books he remembers from his university days. It was a strange time for him, university. While everyone was out getting drunk and having sex, he spent most of his time in his room staring at the ceiling, contemplating his life, and its eventual meaninglessness. In the three years he spent there, even the only girl who paid him attention got tired of it. She would always come to his room to check on him, mostly because he spent months not getting out of bed, and missing lectures. Michael can barely remember her name now; he just knows it was more common than not. Stephanie or Tiffany, a name that sought not to be remembered.
They would stare at the ceiling together, asking questions, having philosophical debates, which would lead to him telling her how much he would be satisfied with dying at that moment and she responding by laughing, and laughing, and laughing, saying, “It’s funny because you sound as though you’re being totally serious,” until one day he replied, “I am,” and saw the look on her face, drained of color, as if she had witnessed a death.
Michael learned from then on to keep it all within. He was not sure how long this sword had dangled above his head, but he knew that he would sooner cut the string that held it than wait for it to fall.
Michael opens the nondescript book he chose arbitrarily to a random page and begins reading about a man called Gaspar Yanga, an enslaved African man who fought for freedom against his slave masters in 1570, liberating himself and his people and establishing a free town in Mexico, which was named after him.
Yanga. It sounds wildly familiar in Michael’s ears, echoing a resonant vibration within him. Michael wonders where Yanga was from, what led him to keep fighting, and fighting, and fighting for a freedom, uncertain whether he might even live to see it. Yanga. It resembles a word in a language he should know, a language that he was never taught, but watched Mother and the elders around her speak to each other in. He remembers their laughter whenever he would try to talk, saying how his language was broken, how he spoke like a mundele, how it was shameful when someone could not speak the language of their country, as if they weren’t the ones who hadn’t taught him. He wonders then what we lose when we are not given our names and our languages back to us; he wonders what parts of us remain dormant when they should be pouring out into the world.
Hours pass by like minutes, as Michael remains sitting on the sofa, engrossed in the book. He hears the metal click of the key in the door. He stops reading, perking up in anticipation while simultaneously trying to remain calm and poised. The door swings open and Belle walks in carrying a load of shopping bags.
“Are you sitting in the dark?” Belle says, as she flicks on the light. Michael realizes he has been sitting in the dark. During the time he was reading, day must have passed into evening, and taken the light with it.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he says as he rushes up to help with her bags. He stops and stands above her and kisses her on her lips as her neck arches up to reach his face. He wraps his arms around her and explores her mouth.
“Hmm,” she groans, “okay but these bags are heavy.”
“Sorry.” They laugh. As he lifts the shopping bags and carries them into the kitchen, he thinks about how hauntingly familiar this all feels; amazed at how something so foreign can so quickly feel like home.
“You bought all this food?”
“Yeah…”
“Why?”
“So we can eat, what kind of question is that?” She chuckles.
“I mean, you didn’t have to.”
“You’re a guest, I wanted to cook.”
“You’re going to cook?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You just didn’t seem…”
“The type?” She scoffs as she arranges the groceries.
“Did you clean up…?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“You just didn’t seem…”
“The type,” they say at the same time, and laugh.
“You shouldn’t have, you’re a guest.”
“Well, I was going to clean and cook, but you haven’t put a ring on it yet, so I can’t let you be getting too comfortable.”
Belle slaps him playfully on his arm, and he feigns being hurt. She pulls him closer toward her and wraps her arms around him. He feels taller, looking down at her, as though somehow he has grown, not simply in height but in spirit. They kiss in the small space in her kitchen, her lips raising his blood pressure.
“You go and relax, let me get started on dinner.”
“I could give you a hand,” he says, but she looks at him as if he has made an absurd proposition.
Michael sits on the sofa and starts reading again. The aroma of Belle’s cooking flows through the air. She looks over, and their eyes meet, their glances sending little messages of happiness to each other.
“So how was work?”
“You know, just the usual. I hate working with incompetent people, and it’s even worse when the incompetent motherfucker is your boss, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not even the worst of it. When I was walking home from the station, some guy try to holla at me, talking about ‘Yo, what’s good, Ma’ blah fuckin’ blah, and followed me for like five blocks.”
“What? Really?”
“Deadass. I got fed up and had to turn around and cuss him out. He just stared at me like a little child who should know better and didn’t even say anything.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry; I don’t even know what to say.”
“I had to walk around three extra blocks just to make sure he wasn’t still following me.”
“Damn.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload on you. It’s just frustrating.”
“It’s okay. I can imagine…”
“I mean, some women get killed over shit like this.”
Michael looks at her with the saddest face he knows and motions for her to come and sit down next to him. She stops cooking and joins him on the sofa, bringing with her two cups of tea.
“How did you know I like green tea?”
“You seem like a tea drinker. You pro’ly got a library that you sit in too.”
“Ha, I wish. Maybe I’m into cough-fee.”
“Coffee.”
“Corf-fee.”
“Coffee.”
“Caw-fee.”
“Are you trying to impersonate a New York accent?”
“That’s how you lot say it. Core-fee.”
“Boy, if you don’t get…” Belle hits him playfully several times, which turns into a semi-wrestling match as he wraps his arms around her and holds. She lays her head down on his chest, and he watches it lower and rise as he breathes.
“I’m rude, I didn’t even ask you how your day was,” she says, as she lifts her head to look at him, then lowers it back down.
“It’s okay, I didn’t do much. I stayed in the apartment all day. Oh, and I did some reading. You have a lot of books in Spanish, do you speak it?”
“Why, yes I do.”
“Really? Say something.”
“Tú tienes una gran cabeza.”
“Wow, that sounds so sexy.”
“Don’t you want to know what I said?”
“What did you say?”
“You have a big head.”
“Oh my gosh,” Michael replies, as she starts to laugh. He feigns trying to push her off the sofa, hanging her over the side as she scrambles to hold on. She shrieks and screams and laughs, until he lets her climb back on top of him.
“I was just kidding.”
“I know.”
“Dumbass.”
“I know some Spanish too.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Guapa.”
“Which girl were you trying to impress when you learned that one?”
“I know some more… ‘Bailamos, let the rhythm take you over, Bailamos, te quiero, amor mío.’ ”
“So, you’re just gonna sing Enrique Iglesias song lyrics? Is that what you’re doing? Corny ass.”
“I can be your hero, baby!”
“Okay. Wow. I did not see that coming. In English too. You’re not even trying anymore.”
“I don’t think you’re appreciating my efforts to be honest.”
“There’s nothing to appreciate. You really cannot sing.”
“I haven’t heard you try…”
“And anyway, that’s not my kind of Spanish.”
“J-Lo? Shakira?”
“My Spanish is more, I dunno, Amara La Negra.”
They both sit in a moment of quiet.
“The food!” With a catlike quickness, she leaps off him and heads into the kitchen; the sound of clanging pots and pans and closing cupboards takes to the air.
“It’s called hudut,” Belle says, as Michael scarfs the food down his throat, saving little time for chewing. He looks up momentarily with a blank stare on his face.
“It’s a dish from the Garifuna.”
His face remains blank. “Everything is a history lesson with you, isn’t it?”
“Ugh, obviously, I have so much to teach you,” she adds.
“Well, either way, it’s amazing,” Michael says, mouth full. Belle looks at him with delight and self-satisfaction.
“Just something I prepared last-minute. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
He nods and looks at her with the same kind of awe with which a child looks at a magician.
“Go ahead,” she says, knowing how much he wants to go for seconds. He rushes back from the kitchen with a full plate.
They sit on the opposite ends of the sofa, facing each other; exchanging looks of longing and wonder. She swirls a glass of red wine, and he sips on a cup of chamomile tea. Melodious acoustic music plays in the background, the singer with a voice of a thousand broken hearts trying to heal.
“You got a dick.”
“What!” Michael responds, almost spitting out his tea.
“You have… a penis,” she says, waving her hand through the air as if providing an elaborate explanation.
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first time you’re noticing.” He looks at her smugly, smirking.
“You’re so different. I’m sometimes in shock that you’re not a woman.”
“Okay… I’m pretty sure I’m a man, but go off.”
“Well, gender is a social construct anyway, but shut up and let me finish. I’m just so comfortable with you, and so soon. A man. A whole-ass man. Y chromosome. Male phallic organ. Penis. Balls.”
“Last time I checked.”
“This is moving fast like a lesbian relationship.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we carry on this way, we could be married in a few weeks.”
Michael shrugs his shoulders. “Why not?” he replies, but is then quickly struck by the reality that he will not be here in a few weeks. Belle laughs at the fact that the idea of marriage doesn’t freak him out.
“You have no idea, do you? It’s funny, straight people have no idea what happens outside of their own relationships, especially men.”
“Yet here you are.”
“A man. I feel like I’m betraying myself, I said I wouldn’t do this again. I was really done.”
“Oh, you’ve dated men before?”
“Yeah.”
“When was the last time?”
“Years ago, I’m talking years. I was probably in college…”
“What was that like?”
“College or the man? Well, let’s just say they were both a letdown.” She quickly answers her own question. “Ugh. What is it with men thinking they are giving you greatness, but in reality, it’s just disappointment?”
Michael shrugs his shoulders.
“When we’d fuck, he would finish and just lay there, and I would go to the bathroom and get off myself. But you…,” she continues, “you’re like a woman, the way you touch, the way your body hears and listens.”
“Surely, not every man, or woman…”
“Shhh, I know that. Just let me talk.”
“You or the wine?”
“Ha, you real funny, my guy. You ever been in love before?”
“Love?”
“Yeah, love. I know you heard me.”
“You first?”
“Fine, I’ll say it. Yeah, I have. I’m not embarrassed to admit it. Your turn…”
“Well, I don’t know…”—Michael hesitates, losing himself in a world of memories—“sometimes I think I have, then other times I’m not so sure. I don’t know if I’ve been in love, or if I’ve even been loved. I feel more like people were obligated to me.”
“What do you mean?” Belle asks with a genuine concern.
“Like they had to be with me, bound by a duty rather than a want—I’ve never been chosen. I’ve never felt like I’ve been loved the way I want to be loved, or the way that I see love.”
“And what way is that?”
“Well, to me it’s a home; the home you build for you and your love. It’s like, in my language, they say ‘na lingui yo,’ which means ‘I love you,’ but it also means ‘I like you.’ It’s like someone saying they’ll be with you for eternity, but also for today. It’s like saying I am your love, but I am also your friend. And I don’t think I’ve ever had either. Maybe I’ve been in love with one person. But I’ve always felt alone.”
“Oh, Michael…”
Belle stands up and holds her hand out to him. He takes it as she leads him to her room. They passionately kiss as they arrive at the bedroom door. He lifts her up and carries her to the bed. He turns around to take off his clothes; he unbuttons his shirt, and removes his jeans, with the belt; a poor choice of clothes for a day spent lounging in an apartment. The lights are off, the moon and the gods their only witnesses. He joins her on the bed under the covers. He slides up behind her and kisses her on her neck. He can hear her deep breathing, feel her frame rising and lowering, her breath a small pocket of wind. She’s falling asleep. She responds and moves toward him, guiding him so that she can rest her head on his chest. And in that moment, she is gone, into a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. He holds her delicately, stroking her hair and the smooth of her skin. Maybe if there is a god, it is simply the amalgamation of moments such as this.