I hope you all enjoyed the first installment of Short Story Sundays! If you missed it, catch up on Naomi Wallace's story here. Let's get right into Part 2.
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Tonight, Troy was rambling.
Troy’s ramblings were frequent and consistent. Previously, I
mistook this as passion. His tenacious and detail-oriented comments about every
minuscule detail of life were exhilarating and reflective to listen to. His ideas
about love were rigid and different than mine, but I found the differences
challenging and thought-provoking. Our first date at Nida’s proved it.
“Why did you choose to wear red tonight?” Troy had asked.
I was in mid-chew, enjoying my favorite dish of pad thai,
served spicy to fit my palette to perfection. I’m sure I frowned at his
question. I took a sip of water from my straw, dabbed my mouth with a napkin
and swallowed hard.
“You don’t like red?” I answered a question with a question.
“It’s ok. Just wondering why you chose red,” he continued.
“So you don’t like what I have on,” I said. My chest rose,
anxious for his response.
“I mean its ok. Red just seems a bit aggressive,” was his
answer.
This time I laughed out loud. Part sarcastic, part irritated—mostly
the latter. My dress of choice was carefully calculated in order to flatter my
size 6 figure without being self-conscious, to stay conservative and
respectful.
Troy laughed out loud as well, probably out of embarrassment.
Still, his questioning continued.
“I’m just wondering why read. Honestly…I mean I can be
honest, correct?” He asked.
“Yes of course. Why stop now?” I said.
“The color is a bit of a turnoff,” he continued.
At this, my eyes squinted and my head quickly cocked to its
right side.
“But your face is beautiful so I didn't hold it against you,”
he said. “Women generally go for soft colors on a first date. But wearing red
is really making a statement. Red exudes love. But it also screams powerful.
And I’m not sure what statement you trying to make with wearing it.”
“Are you afraid of a powerful woman?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” Troy stated.
“Are you afraid of love?” I asked.
“I invite it,” he said. “In fact, I hope your answer has to
do with wanting to invite love.”
I softened at this response. This time he took a sip of his
wine of choice that night: Pinot Grigio. Troy had been more casually dressed
that evening. Jeans, casual shoes, a button down black shirt with a black
cardigan. My red dress stopped just above the knee. I’d worn black peeped-toe
heels.
“Who knows where this night could lead,” Troy said.
He flashed a smile, and then shrugged his shoulder
innocently. I smiled too, and even felt a cold chill so much so that I hope he
did not see me shiver. I looked down at my right arm and saw goose bumps.
Who knows Naomi?
9 months later I looked back on that night at Nida’s and
shook my head and sucked my teeth in disgust. I found his comments to be
endearing. I even described such comments as “refreshing” to my friends. I was
so caught in the emotion of it all; being dined at a restaurant I always wanted
to try but hadn't gotten a chance to. I was smitten by the pink roses he sent
to Precision Publishing the next day. He’d attached a note, “Red is a good
color. But pink is better. You make me think of pink.” I remember smiling when
I read this card. But only after I frowned; I hated pink. Still, I incorporated
pink into every piece of clothing I could after that. Conversations between
Troy and I were heated, spirited and conflicted. We were different. I was a
writer who was liberal and free-thinking in thoughts, ideas and processes. He
was calculated, analytical and very by-the-book. My rebuttal to his latter
quality was that he was reading the wrong books. His rebuttal was that I was
reading the wrong authors.
He was the better debater. After we had parted ways or hung
up the phone, I often pondered his comments well into the middle of the night
and found myself apologizing for a statement I had previously stood by. Tonight
was no different. Troy was rambling about his choice of a movie selection. It
was me who had suggested catching a movie. After a long work week at Precision,
I wanted to laugh, unwind with a romantic comedy. Troy was insisted in seeing a
film about a character who I felt echoed my present life too closely. It was
the story of a young editor who was tired of doing hard news stories, quits her
job and becomes a teacher in the inner city. After my objection, Troy threw out
phrases like “typical chick movie,” and “boring.” He said my movies of choice
were a reflection of how naive I was and how I was hiding behind my job.
I watched his lips move. I watched his expressions. His
eyebrows rose, then furrowed before rising again. I noticed he looked older
than his 32 years of age. I first thought he looked younger. In times of
intense passion, he gestured my way. His gestures matched his tones. Sometimes,
it was a finger pointing; other times he used both is hands from the inside out
as if he was directing an intense crescendo in a symphony. These gestures and
expressions were embedded in my memory, consistent because of the repetition,
replaying like a bad nightmare one has over and over again. Nightmares like the
time he pressed his finger firmly into my temple after I voiced my longing to
want to hang with a friend who had invited me out via text. His breath was warm
as he had gotten close to my face.
“Fine. Just leave me here and break our plans,” he’d
whispered in my ear.
Text responses to my friends were more often than not filled
with apologizes and promises that I or we would make it next time around. But
Troy became my only friend and he made sure my calendar was packed with him.
At first he liked my choice of pink, flattered that I took
his suggestion at heart. Soon, his color of choice for me was green. But I
found myself more flattered at the fact that he was purchased a green sweater,
rather than be offended that I repeatedly told him I did not like the color.
So tonight, as I watched his lips move with repeated
ramblings of offenses against my character as evidenced by my movie selection, I
became disgusted once again. I laughed out loud. This made him pause. It was
his head that cocked to the side this time.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing…” I waived him off, rolled my eyes and melted in
the back of the couch, crossing my arms.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe my movie selection should be more serious.
“So you agree?” Troy asked.
“Yea, you’re right honey,” I said. “Let’s go.”
He leaned in to kiss me, first quickly. Then the second
time, more slowly and my hands found themselves around his neck. He broke the
kiss and stood up to get my jacket.
I wouldn't later tell him that I found the movie to be full
of contradictions about sexism, that inner city students were stereotyped. I
wouldn't tell him that I thought the depiction of minority characters were
typical and marginalized for the 21st century. And finally, I wouldn't
tell Troy that I thought the main character, a black female writer, was weak
and running, that she lost her voiced when she lost her passion and that I was
unhappy with the way she was portrayed.
But, how could I? When, she was me. Or, I was her. Weak and
running, with no voice to fight.
Nope, I delivered very little commentary on the movie, instead
letting him overpower the conversation and interrupt my thought with a better
thought. I wanted dessert after the movie but he was tired and ready to crash.
So instead of Jeni’s ice cream on a Saturday night, I settled for the freezer
burned selection in his freezer, his snores whistling beside me in bed.
**Copyright Tiffany M. Williams. All the writing above is original and shall not be copied without citing the source. Full article posting is not permitted unless permission is given by the owner of the site.**
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