One Night (17 page)

Then I hung up the phone, smiled at the exhausted man sprawled across the bed.

The phone rang again. I answered again. The caller heard my attitude and hung up.

He asked, “Who was it?”

“Probably the jealous bitch at the front desk calling back to have a word.”

He said, “That was some rant. You're a very intelligent girl.”

“Not really. I get bored. I take risks, like I've done tonight. I dress in a way that lets you know I color outside the lines, if there are any lines. I think with my heart, which will be my downfall.”

“That is another thing we have in common.”

“I fail to see anything we have in common, and that is a serious compliment, trust me. I've made more mistakes than people three times my age. I have a hard time following rules. I don't work well with others, which was why I did the rocks in a box alone and didn't have backup. I change my mind a lot. I hated you, then I called you, hated that I had called, and now I've slept with you, and to be honest, I'm still not too sure how I feel about this, but I did enjoy you, only wish I could have known what it would have been like without actually doing it. People tell me I'm eccentric. I dream big, but plan small.”

“I see a lot of qualities in you that I wish existed in me.”

“Is that your slick way of saying I have that crap called Hood Disease, Mr. Affluenza?”

“I'm saying you're a wonderful human being. And I don't suffer from affluenza.”

“Looks like you've made much better choices. Nothing wrong in your world that a quick trip to divorce court, a trip to Paris, two hookers, and three bottles of red wine can't fix.”

“Serious. You're very intelligent. We should have met a little earlier in life.”

“Depends on how intelligence is being measured. My sexual intelligence is much greater than my moral intelligence at the moment, and my commonsense intelligence does not exist right now, and all of those pale in comparison to the problems plaguing both society and Mother Earth.”

“Are we really going to chat about racism, discrimination, and xenophobia?”

“Not before morning. Never talk about that crap, jingoism, or the ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor, or about how imperial dominance is established by means of cultural imperialism. Never have those kinds of talks, or bring up the rights of women, or mention that never-ending dark-skinned versus light-skinned black woman battle in Hollywood. Never mention any of the aforementioned nonsense before the second grande, quad, nonfat, one-pump, no-whip mocha, plus a doughnut and a Red Bull.”

“What do you and your boyfriend chat about after sex?”

“We don't talk after sex.”

“Really?”

“No. Not anymore. The first couple of times he did. That was back in May. It's December now. Guess we've talked about all there is to talk about. Now, guess he's used to me. It's a typical pattern, one that always leaves me feeling as if I'm being taken for granted. After he's been at my place a few minutes, he'll tell me to get naked. Or if I'm at his place, I go in, kiss him on the lips once or twice, undress, get in the bed, and he gets undressed, puts a condom on, and we do it, and then I wash and dress myself when we're done. I get dressed because he flushes his condom and cleans his dick, then pulls his underwear back on, which is like cleaning your gun and putting it back in the holster, and when you holster your gun, you're about to leave the firing range. Then he pulls his shirt and pants back on.”

“You just fall on your back and he falls into you?”

“He's a doggy-style guy. Sometimes from the beginning to the end.”

“Impersonal. Not face-to-face. Objectifying.”

“You did the same.”

“I started with us face-to-face. I looked into your eyes. I gave you respect.”

“Yeah. You did. Hmm. Wow.”

“Doesn't sound too romantic.”

“This was romantic. Wow. I guess that's what's felt different all night. You didn't just bring me to the room and hop between my legs. Waiting for the moment was intense. The way you treat me in bed is a new experience for me. He pumps a few times and he's done. I'd get more good pumps in a venti half and half, ten pumps vanilla, extra whip. Every pump you gave me was a pump that struck oil.”

He said, “We must be doing something wrong.”

“Cheating on them?”

“No, shortchanging ourselves. You with Chicken and Waffles. Me with my wife.”

I said, “The fool and the idiot savant.”

“More like two foolish idiot savants.”

“Being with each other is cheating on them, but being with them is cheating ourselves.”

He said, “After being with you, after he experiences you in this wonderful fashion, you said that he goes to play juvenile games. And after being with me, my wife rushes to play Candy Crush.”

“You told me that. I don't believe it. Not the way you throw down. You made me squeal.”

“Well, the way you throw it back, I can't imagine him doing anything but wanting more.”

I grinned. “Jesus, you're so damn good in bed. You actually made me squeal. I never squeal.”

“I'm following your lead. Trying to keep up.”

“I'm trying to handle that LSD and keep up with and beat you to get my cheesecake.”

“LSD?”

“Long, sweet dick. Long, strong dick.”

He laughed. “I guess Susan and LSD are compatible.”

“Yeah. My body is so attracted to your body that it scares me. So compatible it's scary.”

“I haven't even shown you half of what I want to do to you.”

“I haven't shown you half of what I'd like to have done before I do you the way I want to.”

“Swive? Is this another challenge?”

“Stop bluffing. LSD is now a limp, snoring dick.”

He smiled, chuckled. “How do you feel at this moment?”

“That salad at Denny's did not do it for me. These thighs are hungry.”

He reached for the hotel phone. Asked me to hand him the menu. I told him that food here was very pricey. He pinched my booty and asked me again to hand him the menu. It was hard to move, but I did. He took a deep breath, took control again, ordered food, then hung up and came back to me.

I asked, “Are we on a date now?”

“Yeah. I think we're on a date.”

“Fourth date.”

“Fourth? This is our fourth date?”

I said, “Gas station was the blind date, Denny's was the second date, then the movie theater, and of course the dramatic date at 7-Eleven.”

“Then this would be the fifth date.”

“So I kissed you after the third date?”

“Yeah. After the movie. Took me three dates to get some of that tongue.”

I laughed. “Surprised we lasted this long.”

“Me, too. Thought that thing at 7-Eleven would have sent you packing.”

“Surprised we made it past Denny's. You say some of the rudest things.”

“I'm surprised we made it to Denny's. You and your con game.”

We enjoyed smiles and a moment of silence. It was beautiful. It was so peaceful.

I asked, “Want to watch television? Want to see if we made the news?”

“I just want to look at you. Right now I need you.”

“Jesus. I need you, too. Right now, I need you, too. You're the only art I want to see.”

“Oh, so now I'm art?”

“You are definitely art.”

I went to my bag, came back with two mints. He sucked on one and I sucked on the other, then we lay side by side, facing each other, touching lips, French kissing as we talked and sucked sugar from each other's tongues. There was no noise inside my head, no train running around my brain.

I asked, “What does it feel like to be rich and be able to have everything you want?”

“I don't have everything I want.”

“Compared to me, based on what I have seen, you have options, right?”

He nodded. “I have options.”

“Then you have everything.”

“I'm not happy.”

I said, “You can control your destiny.”

“Some things are beyond anyone's control.”

“You can be unhappy in Dubai or Italy. I have to be unhappy in my one-bedroom apartment. I have to be unhappy on an empty belly, and you can be unhappy at an all-inclusive resort in Barbados.”

He said, “I won't argue that, not with your perspective.”

“I'm wrong? Fancy car. Boat. Business. You have the things people kill to have.”

“A man can have access to everything and still have nothing.”

“That's sad.”

“That's true.”

“That's tragic.”

He said, “Only takes meeting one person to turn your life around, good or bad.”

He asked, “Do you come with your boyfriend?”

He mentioned Chicken and Waffles and a chilly, nippy sensation crept into my bones.

I took a breath and said, “Nah. I have to play with it after and come.”

“He doesn't make you come?”

“Sex isn't always about having an orgasm. Sometimes it's just the closeness that's needed.”

“Don't make excuses. You stay with a man who doesn't satisfy you?”

“Lots of women do the same. Lots of women don't come from penetration.”

“You came with me.”

“That surprised me. I never come with a guy the first time. Usually I'm too tense. Too worried about pleasing him. That last moment, that was intense, both of us coming at the same time.”

“Yeah.”

“You make your wife come?”

“She orgasms.”

“Bet she loves it. Bet she's loved it since you dicked her down on your boat.”

“My wife isn't as expressive as you are.”

“She talk dirty?”

“She'll get vocal toward the end, but nothing decipherable, nothing that wakes the dead.”

“She's a dead fish, then starts to flop a little bit during the third act?”

“Not a dead fish, but she's not that dynamic. With me, she's very reserved.”

“Aristocratic sex.”

“She's not that bad.”

“You put her in a frenzy and make her have spasms, have convulsions, throb like you did me? Do you make her curse and want to take it any way you want to give it? Tell me the real deal.”

“This was a new experience for me, this level of sexual compatibility.”

“Is she boring in bed?”

“I don't think I've ever motivated her beyond missionary and an occasional doggy. She's never there with me, not completely. It's like being with a whore more concerned with the time on the clock.”

“I can't believe that. You are the bomb. Well, tonight you're the bomb.”

“You're inspiring. Arousing. You make me want to do so many things.”

He closed his eyes in a way that told me he didn't care for the conversation. It was different now than when we were strangers at Denny's. What people are willing to reveal always changes after sex has been put into the equation. I kissed his lips two more times, each kiss an effort to measure where we were now, and when he didn't respond, I moved away. He reached for me, pulled me back to him, pulled me close. I understood where we were. We were where we didn't have to be afraid of silence, a tranquil place where many couples never arrive. Comfortable, I cuddled up to him, closed my eyes for a second.

I was at Kenneth Hahn park, chasing Natalie Rose through the grass. It was an eidetic memory, and I recalled every sound, every color, and every word. I sang, serenaded my child. She looked back at me and laughed. I loved the way she called me Mommy. I smiled at her, wondering what she would be like when she grew up, where she would go to university, who she would marry.

There was another knock on the door, and Natalie Rose went away.

I sat up, jerked like I was being burned by a cigarette, ready to scream for Natalie Rose to come back to me. Woke up boohooing and panting like I was in labor. The human body can tolerate up to forty-five units of pain. When a woman gives birth, she tolerates up to fifty-seven units. That is like twenty bones being fractured all at once. That is the excruciating level of pain a mother endures to give birth. We take ourselves close to death to give life. That's why a mother's love is so strong. My love was powerful. Since losing Natalie Rose, some part of each day had been at level fifty-seven.

That was how much I loved my child. No man would ever be able to understand my angst.

I wanted to see her again, wanted to tell her that Mommy would be with her again.

I ran across the carpet and opened the door, the bright hall light shocking my eyes, making me think I had opened the secret door to heaven, and I stood there looking for her, expecting her to be there. No one was there. My eyes adjusted. It was just a long hallway, a very long and empty hallway.

Still, I said her name. Whispered her name three times.

Felling overtired, I went back to the romping shop, went back to the comfortable bed.

The man from Orange County sat up all of a sudden, said, “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Was someone at the door?”

I kissed him. I contemplated him and my pupils expanded.

He eased out of the bed, stretched, went to the bathroom, closed the door.

The water in the sink came on. I took that to mean he had to go potty real bad.

I went back to the door, looked out the peephole. I had wanted Natalie Rose to be there. I wanted my child to come back. I wanted to sit with her and watch
Kirikou and the Sorceress
again and again.

I fell into a trance.

Remembering Natalie Rose. Feeling my daughter's presence.

It was Christmastime. The time of year when people get ready for and celebrate Christmas all over the country. Since Natalie Rose left me behind, this has been the hardest time of the year for me.

Until I saw her again, this would always be one of the hardest times of the year.

We were supposed to spend many, many Christmases together. Not just six Christmases. Not just six Mother's Days. Not just six birthdays. Her father had moved on, and I yearned for her.

Nude, I looked out the thick window, stared at the rain. The man from Orange County came up behind me. The man I had only just met, the stranger I didn't know from Adam, took soft steps across the carpet. He crept up on me as I stood in a trance, as I was unaware. This was dangerous, trusting him, being here. My eyes readjusted, moved from the rain, and I saw his reflection in the darkness of the glass. I saw the shadow of a stranger. The man who could have been a serial killer came up behind me, and by the time I saw his reflection, saw his horrible intention, it was too late. I was unable to move.

It was too late to run, too late to duck, and screaming would do me no good. His hand rose up high, and then it came down fast and hard, delivering a blow to the back of my head.