Between Lovers (35 page)

“You haven't given me much of a choice when it comes to you.”

Nicole's I-pager vibrates. She checks the message. It's Ayanna. She's home working, about to crash, and wants to know what time we're going to run in the AM, if she should defrost duck for dinner tomorrow. Nicole types a message back to Ayanna, tells her that we're running at seven, rain or shine, and to meet us at the Waterfront.

When she puts her I-pager away, she says, “Truth or truth?”

“Shoot.”

Nicole has a serious, what I would call a very literary face. “You want to fuck her?”

I say, “Fair exchange is no robbery.”

“Pussy is pussy, right?”

I retort, “You should know. You get more pussy than I do.”

“That wasn't nice.”

“Don't dish it out if you can't take it.”

Nicole loses her intellectuality, sounds like Ayanna when she's frustrated and feeling powerless, and takes me to the pussy level. What I need is higher than that, much higher: physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, a combination of many things.

I tell Nicole, “It's never ever been just about the sex. Not even when we were in the Jeep. Not in Paris. Not last night. Not this evening. My loving you makes me want to love you all the time.”

“Really.”

The reggae, the chatter, the sound of a cell phone ringing, a glass breaking, fills in the space.

Nicole hums awhile. A couple of brothers sporting back-length dreadlocks come up into this private den. They come over and hand her flyers for a lot of hip-hop shows going down in the area. Kelly Price, Case, and Tamia at the Henry J. Kaiser Arena; another about The Justice League; one promoting the East Oakland Voices at the El Haaj Malik El Shabazz Community Center.

Nicole stuffs them in her purse, says positive things, wishes the brothers eternal peace, and they leave, both smiling like they are in love.

Nicole leans, melts into me. Our thoughts as deep as a Toni Morrison novel.

Slow song comes on. Bob Marley's “Three Little Birds.” We stand up in front of the love seat, and in the intimate space we dance in the chatter. No one else dances. We don't care. She holds me and I think of how Ayanna says Nicole won't hold her in public. When the dance is done, we sit back down.

My body is aching. Reminding me that I'm not as young as I used to be. Not old, but not that young anymore. It takes nothing to get old. All I have to do is wait, be idle or be busy, and age finds me. I tell Nicole that thought, let her know that even if we do this circle thing, I won't be there forever. That I know for sure.

She says, “At some point, I'm still going to have to choose.”

“Or I'll have to choose. Or Ayanna will have to. At some point.”

I love Nicole; there is no doubt in my mind or my heart about that. But today I'm still like that man in Lolita. My feet are still in concrete. At times it feels like it's loosening, but maybe, like worn shoes, that sign of loosening is not a sign of freedom, just comfort.

We talk for a while. Share laughs at our own expense.

Nicole puts on her serious face, says, “What if we had a baby?”

I ask, “How would Ayanna fit into that picture?”

“She wouldn't.”

“What are you saying?”

“I just said it. I want to have a baby. Want my child to play with my nieces and nephews.”

“You want your mother to accept you.”

“Don't analyze me.”

“Tell me I'm lying and I'll drop it.”

“Do you hear what I want? I want you. Nobody but.”

Pause. More heavy thoughts. If this were a week ago, I'd be turning cartwheels and flips, calling my father and my brothers and her mother and planning welcome back parties all over the country.

Today I'm uneasy. Have some strange feelings for Ayanna. A moment ago when she I-paged Nicole, I smiled. I was just as happy to hear from her. She's part of my five senses, so her face, voice, aroma, taste, touch, all of that trickled over my skin when her message came through. Made me almost wish she was here talking, playing devil's advocate like she always does.

Ayanna has been with us for a long time. Even when I didn't know her name, wasn't cognizant of her existence, she was there. And now with the knowing of this eight-year thing, I know Ayanna has been here since day one. There has always been three of us in our bed. Always.

Nicole sees the lines in my face, those railroad tracks that come when I'm thinking. She rubs her hand over my forehead, smoothes out those tracks.

She says, “You don't believe me, do you?”

“You love Ayanna. It's in your eyes, see it when you touch her. Don't fake the funk.”

“Of course I love her. I can't imagine her not being in my life. That's why it hurts me.”

“What hurts you?”

“What I'm going to have to do.”

“What?”

“Pack my bags. Break her heart. Divorce myself from her.”

My insides become hollow.

I shake that empathy away.

Ayanna is the enemy, my antagonist, the one who keeps me from achieving my goal. She has invaded my love the way the Moors invaded Spain.

I touch Nicole's honey-blond hair; she reaches her hand back and touches my light brown twisties, runs her hand across my chin, along my stubble, her bracelets jingling when her arm raises.

We sink into the love seat, do that in a room filled with chit-chatty strangers, hold each other until we can't hear the music, or the people in the other peach chairs laughing on their cell phones, or pagers going off, or see the people who are walking by on the green carpet and damn near stepping on our feet, or smell the coffee, or smell the beer, can't hear see smell feel touch taste anything but us.

The world falls away. We're in our own garden.

She doesn't let go first.

When my arm goes numb and I try to let go, she holds on tighter, holds on the longest.

Back at the Waterfront, Nicole gets on the phone. Working on contracts and compromises at the midnight hour. Leaving messages for clients at Honeywell, Motorola, and Ford.

I'm thinking about all the stuff we talked about. All of her honesty, all of the revelations.

She was with Ayanna three times before the wedding.

That hurts.

Part of me wants to hurt Ayanna back.

Then I tell myself to let it go, that Nicole is mine.

Then I remind myself that nothing is guaranteed. That I have to give her that extra push, have to make sure she doesn't renege on her promise the way Ayanna reneged on hers when she lost the race.

Again I tell myself to let it go.

I look down at that statue of Jack London, then across the mall at the colorful flags that are always flapping in these frigid bay winds. So many colorful flags in this city. So many realities in this world.

She gets off the phone, says, “I'm about to hop in the shower. Coming?”

“Go ahead.” I smile at her. She's still wearing the engagement ring. “I'm going to wind down.”

Nicole always showers a long time.

I pick up
Lolita;
think about reading a few pages but I know I'm not in a reading mood.

I take the cassette out of my jacket. I've had it with me all day. I place it on the dining room table, right next to my recorder. Then I change my mind, grab the tape, think about ripping it to shreds and dropping it into the trash can, but I don't. This is a weapon. A powerful weapon.

I put the tape back down. Go back to the window.

Nicole comes out of the bathroom, one towel around her body, another around her hair, dancing like she's been injected with the spirit of Bob Marley. Nicole says, “God, you have the nicest ass.”

I smile. “Booty or ass?”

She laughs.

I head for the shower. Leave Nicole towel drying her hair and watching the news on Channel 4. The shower is loud, the door closed, so I can't hear anything but the echo of water bouncing off the wall of this chamber. When the shower goes off, I hear voices.

“I
hate Nicole.”

Ayanna's voice is so strong.

So intense.

Water is dripping from my body when I open the door.

I run into that voice.

“No feeling about how she uses people to get what she wants.”

Click. Whirr.

Nicole is sitting at the dining table, both towels have fallen from her, one from her head, the other from her body, and they lay at her feet, soaked, like two lovers intertwined after a night of passion.

My chest feels tight. I stand behind her.

Nicole releases a rugged breath.

I say her name.

She doesn't turn around. Over and over, the recorder clicks, whirrs, stops.

She pushes rewind. Click. Whirr. Stop.

Click. Whirr. Stop.

Click. Whirr. Stop.

Click. Whirr. Stop.

I turn the tape off. She doesn't stop me. Then I wait for words.

Finally she asks, “Did you fuck her?”

I shake my head.

Nicole gets in the bed, pulls the covers up to her neck, turns her back to me.

She says, “Saw the tape. In plain view. It wasn't there when we came in.”

I don't say anything.

“Thought you had recorded your book signing. Just wanted to know what kind of questions Ayanna asked. Like I said, I heard she was giving you a hard time.”

I dry off. Get in the bed.

She says, “You left that tape out on purpose.”

“Yes.”

“Why? I told you I was yours.”

“You've told me that before.”

“Was that necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

At first I don't know why. Then I do. So many deceptions have passed before my eyes. In the beginning Ayanna had the upper hand. That was how she could steal my woman from me.

Now I want to achieve order, restore balance in my life. The first step to doing that is by introducing more chaos, a new calamity.

Or maybe I'm just plain old scared. We stood at the altar before, and she walked away. I need to do what I have to do.

It pains me, but I have to strike while confusion rises. Strike when it hurts me to do so. This is about my own sanity, my own survival. About reestablishing calmness in my realm. And to do that I have to show Nicole Ayanna's deception, make sure Nicole doesn't renege on her promise.

And all this time, I thought it was Paris. But it started long before. I carried that guilt for so long.

I could struggle to articulate all of that, but I don't.

I whisper these words to her, “Seven years. I've loved you for twenty-eight seasons. We've sat underneath almost a hundred full moons together.”

“Because you have to win.”

“Because I refuse to lose.”

The bottom line is that I'm beyond my mile twenty. Way too far beyond. Hurts too much to stop.

Her foot bounces.

I think of Ayanna. Smell her. Feel her kisses on my face. Grit my teeth and remind myself that she is the enemy.

Nicole sniffles. She's mumbling, talking to herself, maybe praying.

“Sweetie.”

I say, “Uh huh.”

Silence. Then the bracelets jingle. Jingle as she takes them off and drops them on the dresser.

She whispers, “You win.”

Amtrak blows three times as Ayanna walks from a well-lit hallway into my room, her bracelets jingling as she struggles to carry all of her gear. Ayanna carries a folded Runners World in one hand, her huge black-and-red gym bag, one with many compartments, over the same shoulder, a half-eaten Power Bar in the other.

“Good morning,” Ayanna says with a short yawn and a long smile.

“G' morning,” I reply. “You're loaded down.”

“Brought fresh clothes,” she says. “I have to leave here and meet with a client.”

She dumps her bag near the foot of the bed.

She kisses my lips. “Nicole up?”

“Bathroom.”

Ayanna's bracelets jingle when she taps the bathroom door. “Morning, sweetie.”

Nicole eases out of the bathroom, busy tying a purple scarf around her locks.

Ayanna says, “It's supposed to rain again. We better get rolling.”

They make eye contact. Good morning smiles on both faces.

Ayanna has mischievous eyes. “I'm making Peking duck tonight. So, if we can all get together for dinner in front of the fireplace, that would be a nice way to end the evening.”

Nicole opens her mouth, her eyes come to me for a moment, then she closes her mouth and busies herself putting on her running shoes. Ayanna moves to the dining area, stands in front of the window, looking out at Jack London Square as she does heel holds. Wall leans. Overhead reaches.

We all have on black tights, all of us in gray sweat-shirts. Coincidence.