Between Lovers (24 page)

Ayanna is half a block ahead, her yellow and black making her look like a bumblebee, and I feel as if I'm approaching maximum heart rate. Her arms are relaxed, her hands below her heart, a smooth rhythm, the same magnificent form Nicole owns when her feet pound the pavement.

Ayanna glances back over her left shoulder as she crosses an intersection, almost trips as she avoids pedestrians huddled at the bus stop in front of Wal green‘s, sees that I'm in striking distance. She tries to leave me. I pick up the pace. At 20th, she steals another peek as she cuts right toward the lake. I can smell her fading scent, can hear her jingles echoing like laughter.

I'm getting closer, five seconds behind when we cross Webster Street. I'm hurting like hell, ready to slow down to an easy jog.

We run by the smokers outside Lake Merritt Plaza and by the time we take the contest toward the lake, my body adjusts to the agony. Adrenaline numbs my torment as if it were morphine. Then my pain outweighs nature's drug, becomes too great.

A quarter mile around the lake, I catch her, begin stepping on her shadow, a shadow that comes and goes with the diffused light overhead. Oxygen flows to my muscles. I'm hurting. My mind is not ready for battle. I'm about ready to give this shit up. Ayanna runs like she has a high lactic acid threshold, can perform harder and longer at this level; a smooth runner who consumes very little oxygen, very little metabolic and cardiorespiratory stress, at least none that I can see.

My pace picks up, bluffs that I'm holding back and can perform better, with every stride I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, using my technique to hide my pain, to keep me going.

But she's good. So natural. So well-trained.

Strong heart. Strong mind. Strong legs.

People are pausing long enough to stare at us.

Halfway around the lake, sweat rolls from my forehead to my right eye. I wipe it away without a thought. My pace is good and I'm floating. I catch her and ride her tailwind. Right before we get to the Veteran's Memorial Building, she realizes what I'm doing and steps aside. I move up and match her pace. Run at her side at a warrior's stride.

She makes orgasmic faces as she huffs, “You run like a bitch.”

“Wow ... Counselor ... such—”

“Hard time talking?”

“—intelligent vocabulary ... from a woman—”

“Not getting tired are you?”

“—with so many ... degrees.”

“I'm dumbing it down so you can understand. See ya.”

She speeds up, pulls away with ease, baits my male ego. It's not until then that I see her strategy. She has pissed me off, made me run out of my comfort zone, and on top of that she's made me talk with the wind slapping me in my face. In that angry moment, the cold air attacks my lungs, causes them to contract, making it twice as hard to keep my pace.

Then we're back downtown, the Sears building behind us, Wells Fargo bank building in front of us, once again ducking and dashing by innocent bystanders. We're rude and in our own zone, sometimes stepping in the streets, running as many red lights as we can.

She's ahead of me again. Seven, maybe ten seconds. Looking strong. Running with arrogance.

I run facing traffic, stay on the outside of the parked cars. I do that because I notice that when she looks back, she always looks over her left shoulder, never her right.

In every war, there must be a plan. Must be a strategy. You watch your opponent, look for their weaknesses, see where they screw up, and you have to use it to your advantage.

With less than a mile to go, she glances back over that favorite shoulder and doesn't see me. I'm there. Hurting, but I'm there. Ten seconds behind her. With her steady pace, with the burning in my muscles, the pain in my hamstring, that is forever. My skin is being ripped away, the exposed wound soaked in Tabasco. I'm ready to slow, ready to concede, but her step falters, her arms come up higher. Losing form. She mis steps, then recovers within six strides. Form slips again. Arms too high. Favoring her right leg. She's tense. She's tired. She's afraid to lose. She's becoming weak.

So am I.

She's ten seconds ahead of me when she goes under the 980 overpass. The people zooming into the Tube almost run her down, break her stride, but she recovers, looks back, doesn't see me. It's downhill all the way. I stay in the street, on the outside of the huge, circular support columns for the overpass, and once again she glances back over her left shoulder. Nope, she can't see me, not at all.

She doesn't slow down, like I'd hoped she'd do by the time she passed the Oakland Police Department, maybe by the time she crossed the Probation Department, but she doesn't speed up either.

I struggle to overcome my lack of natural ability with heart and dedication. My foot strike is right behind the ball of my foot, and I push off with my toes, my arms in rhythm with my legs, knees up, stride getting longer, longer, longer, knees up, breathe, breathe, maintain my pace, try not to waste energy by over-striding, stay steady, stay smooth.

I refuse to be beat.

Five seconds behind.

I refuse to be beat by her.

Her shadow is within reach.

I refuse to lose Nicole.

Knees high and changing to sprint mode, legs burning and chest aching, lungs on fire as I pass Ayanna two blocks before Jack London Cinema. She thought me wounded and dead, was ready to celebrate by feasting on my rotting flesh. I feel her surprise, hear her even breaths become a rugged jerk when I come from nowhere, feel her try and shift gears by lengthening her stride.

Her feet slap the streets, her huffing and puffing, the jingle of the bracelets on her arm rings like a warning, letting me know where the enemy resides. I never look back. Those desperate jingles fall behind.

I reach the designated spot in front of Jack London Cinema in thirty-seven minutes and twelve seconds. The jingles catch up five seconds later.

She stops beyond me, as if to prove a point, then walks in a circle. Sweat flows from her skin, sits in the hollows of her collarbone, giving her an early-morning glow. Drops of that salty moisture have collected in her crotch, are rolling down the trim definition of her back, being dried by the harsh breeze.

With her hands on her slender hips, she pants and kicks the pavement with the ball of her foot.

I say, “Next time bring your A-game.”

“Where was your A-game on your wedding day?”

I frown. I'm two breaths from committing a felony.

She rants at me, “I don't see what she sees in you anyway. If you were a nice-looking, dark-skinned brother, I might understand, but—”

I snarl, “Pack your shit, get out of Oakland, never come back, never call her, never return her calls.”

She scowls and wipes her face, at first I think it's sweat, but it's the beginning of tears. She coughs, sneezes, gags, starts to throw up.

I jog toward the lobby of the hotel, leave her tossing her cookies on the pavement as an Amtrak passes. A hundred passengers witness her misery.

Ayanna catches up with me before I make it back to Jack London Square. She follows me into the Waterfront, up the stairs, then down the hallway. Her body is in such misery that it's a struggle for her to keep up.

Ayanna speaks in both fear and the syncopation of love. “I don't want her stolen from me. I love her so much that if she had cancer, I'd want cancer too, just so she wouldn't have to suffer alone. Can you say your love is that strong? Are you capable of loving like that?”

My response is, “Geesh. And you said her pussy had made me delusional.”

That breaks her pace.

Ayanna bumps by me when I open my door. The moment I close it, I take off my dank sweatshirt and T-shirt and remind her, “You said anything. No limits.”

I take in her frame, the lines and curves that look more apparent in this moment, the swell of her breasts, the erection of each nipple as they stand chilled underneath her damp sports bra. My eyes roving from head to toe, my face frowning at the parts that differentiate her sex from mine.

Fragile lines appear on her face. That's the damage losing has added. I also see that her belligerence has doubled. Smoke portends fire.

Ayanna stares at the wall, runs her fingers through her lioness mane, her lips looking full, reminding me of the pouty and angry demeanor of Sandra Bernhard. “Selfish bastard. Is your love that damn strong? Would you sacrifice everything? Are you capable of loving Nicole like that? Or do you just love with your dick? All you are to her is another orgasm donor anyway.”

“I did sacrifice everything. I sacrificed and you lost.”

“Well, she dumped your ass and followed me here, so who really lost? She lives with me, so who has lost? All you get are a few stolen moments. One weekend a month, if that, like a damn army reserve. And when you leave here, she'll be with me.”

That digs too deep.

“Like I said, bring your A-game next time.”

“And like I said,” she woofs back at me, “where was your A-game on your wedding day?”

I stare at her, heart racing, mouth dry, my fingers becoming fists.

She swallows, allows her fingers to pop and roll into fists.

She's desperate. Never attack a desperate enemy.

I back off, but I still say, “So you're reneging.”

Her lips twist. She refuses to be banished from her own kingdom, forever living in solitude with a broken heart. From where I stand, in the section with the sofa and love seat, I can see that her heart is beating so fast it creates an abbreviated rise and fall of her damp chest.

Ayanna raises my blood pressure and brings out the worst in me. What I hate even more is that she has brought out the best in me. I've never run that distance that fast—something she doesn't need to know.

We continue to stare. If only she were a man, I'd kick her ass.

She moves by me and opens my closet, begins pulling out my luggage, going through my things.

I demand to know, “What do you think you're doing?”

“Why would she buy me coffee every day, and on weekends she always brings me my favorite M&Ms, never plain, always the ones with peanuts, but she still runs to you the moment you get here. What makes you so fucking special?”

She digs through my brown leather messenger bag, pulls out my journal and my pictures. Pictures of me and Nicole in Maui, Jamaica, Cancun. Skiing in Canada at Whistler. At the Louvre in Paris. Enough pictures to remind Ayanna that I've been more than just a dick to Nicole, more than a wretched orgasm donor.

Ayanna stops in her tracks. “These are the wedding pictures.”

I turn on the shower, leave her sitting on the floor, investigating my life, being tormented by those indelible images, looking for answers to things no one but Nicole can answer.

I hear her bracelets jingle as I shower, that irritating song she makes irking me down to my bones as I scrub and deliberate why she's here. It's simple to ask her to go away, but I want Ayanna here. The reason is simple. Nobody can be in two places at the same time. If she's here tormenting me, she can't be with Nicole. That gives me solace. Gives me faux control. Faux because I know that Ayanna is here to monitor the same insecurities.

Water runs down my back. I close my eyes. And I see those pictures. Always see those pictures. The videotape of that day runs through my mind like the Mississippi runs south. I swim upstream against those memories.

 

Most of those pictures were taken an hour before the wedding that almost happened. Me and my groomsmen getting dressed, helping me put on my Kente bowtie and matching cummerbund, posing for the photographer, laughing and having fun to cover my nerves. Nicole with her entourage outfitted in white gowns, traditional gowns that her mother picked out, all trimmed in pink. All the women smiling and hoping to be the one to catch the bouquet, so they could pressure their mates across the broom, getting their hair curled or straightened, nail polish touched up, helping my love put on her silk and chiffon gown. Nicole, dressed in white, looking like an angel.

Nicole's mother was there with the rest of her family and friends; they'd all flown out to L.A. My father was doing the ceremony, and we were at his church. The AME church I grew up in. The church on Crenshaw where I ushered for many years. My old man's friends were there, people who flew in from his alma mater at Morehouse, friends of Littles and Kings, doctors and lawyers who marched the roads of Birming ham with him during the uncivilized days of the civil rights movement, people who had done the same in the north. People who believed in God and family.

A saxophonist played and Tammy Barrett sang as Nicole came down that red carpet. She moved so ethe really across the roses that had been sprinkled on her trail, so many
ooos
and
ahhhs,
so many clicks and whirs from all the cameras flashing, floating with the grace of a princess, escorted by her stepfather, short nervous steps that looked so smooth, smiling at a few people as tears welled up in her eyes.

With all those eyes on us, in that temple, surrounded by warm smiles and teardrops waiting to fall, my father did his thing. He spoke of responsibility and trust, touched on all the things it takes to make a marriage work, with the emphasis being on work, of a man's role, of the woman's role, letting us know that no matter whether the sun was shining or if dark clouds were looming, and dark clouds would indeed loom, we'd be husband and wife, bonded through God, and we were to work it out.

Tears welled in Nicole's eyes too. So many tears ready to fall.

When my father asked Nicole if she would take me to be her husband, she opened her mouth, nodded, smiled, then this other look washed over her face.