I Could Be You: 10 short stories on love, loss, and life. By Teri Weefur

I Could Be You

10 short stories on love, loss, and life

by teri weefur

Boy of Summer

"Maybe things will be different this time," she said, her head titled slightly in question.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, returning them quickly back to the ground.

"Give me five minutes. I'll meet you back here, “he mumbled and walked off, scraps of paper scattering around his feet.

She watched him walk away and wondered about him, a tinge of worry framing her curiosity.

She pulled out a Virginia Slim and dug deep into her overstuffed handbag for a matchbook. A man approached, fixing his eyes on her as he walked down the sidewalk. More often than not, the lingering stares of men did not bother her, but there were moments when she had to restrain herself from running far away and never coming back.

Instead, she turned to face the store display window, piled high with television sets.

"What's the score?" he asked, leaving a safe space between them.

She flicked her cigarette towards the curb, then smiled.

"You startled me,” she said, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Most of the way, they strolled in silence, the heat too suffocating to walk at a faster pace. She adjusted her dress, its A-line cut allowing a slight breeze to give her some relief. She tried to make conversation, but he only replied with a terse "yes" or "no."

"Tell me something? Do you like me at all?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," he answered.

"Well at least I got a complete sentence out of you this time," she joked.

He looked down at his hands, his palms facing the ground. She'd noticed this nervous habit of his, always examining his hands as if something was missing from them. He'd also fiddle with his fingers the way a shy schoolboy did when he was around the first girl he liked.

When they reached the building, he led the way up the staircase and they stood before the door. He pulled out a large round key ring that— as he removed them from his pocket— sang like a wind chime. Except they weren't standing on some classic veranda, overlooking a view of the hills. They were in a dim staircase that smelled of body odor and mildew.

She would not have noticed the key ring, except that there was something unusual about it: He had arranged all of the keys by color, shape and size. He found the key to the door in no time and unlocked it. The room did not look lived in, yet there was something about the way it smelled that revealed otherwise.

"Wanna drink?" he asked, pulling off his seersucker, revealing the damp armpits of his white button up shirt.

"No thanks. That stuff'll kill you," she said facetiously as she pulled out another cigarette.

"I like your shirt," she added, watching him, "only seen those kinds in the picture shows."

"It's called a guayabera. From Cuba," he explained. He pulled a clear bottle out of the dresser drawer and poured a drink into one of the two glasses sitting on the dresser.

"Why don't you come sit beside me," she offered, patting the bed where she had settled. She moved over to make room for him, causing the meticulously made-up bedspread to shift.

He swallowed the drink in one shot, walked to the bathroom to rinse the glass and returned to the room. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the glass dry and set it back on the table.

"Come," she urged, and he sat beside her, smoothing out the wrinkles in the bed.

She placed her hand on his, trying to provide some comfort for his nervousness, and felt him stiffen up.

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?" he responded.

"Mess with your hands like that?" she explained.

He shrugged.

She took his hand and placed it on her knee. He may as well have been asleep with the weight it held.

"I—I can't. I'm sorry," he whispered and hung his head low.

She sighed and placed his hand back on his lap. The bed creaked as she leaned over him to grab another cigarette.

"I should be upset that I'm wasting my time with you…." Her voice trailed off. He waited for a "but," but one never came.

They sat in silence until she rose and squatted in front of the television to turn it on.

"I'll leave in a minute," she said and sat back down beside him.

He took a breath in and hesitated, then opened his mouth to speak: "I can't see well without my glasses. What's the score?"

"It's 4-3," she replied.

"Are we winning?"

"No. We're not," she said, crushing her cigarette in the glass ashtray.

"Well," she said picking up her handbag. "I'm going now. I hope the next time I see you, you'll know for sure what you want out of this—this arrangement, "she said looking at him.

He looked down at his hands.

She walked towards the dresser and slid the folded bills off the table and into her pocket.

He opened his mouth, again in hesitation, as she reached the door.

"You know, I'm not always gonna be here. One day, I'll be going home," he said with more conviction than she'd ever heard in his voice before.

"Right," she said. "And until then, I'll see you around," she added on her way out the door.

The Foreseeable Future

R

usted chimes announced her entrance into the dimly lit, red-hued living room. Her palms began sweating and she rubbed them nervously against her jeans.

“Hello?” she called out in trepidation. After a few moments, just as she parted her lips to call out another greeting—and contemplated rushing quietly out the door again—there came a response.

“Please. Come in.” A woman appeared from behind the quintessential hippie door beads, which rattled as she walked through them. She looked like a living version of the teapot described in nursery rhymes—short and stout. Wispy strands of grey hair slipped out from under her hot-pink, retro silk scarf, tied so that its tails flowed like a meteor trail behind her.

“Hi, I called about the reading?” the young woman asked more than she stated. She extended her hand, glad now she had wiped them just seconds before.

“Yes. You must be Acacia. Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” The girl smiled shyly and uttered a quick thank you.

“I am Rivka,” the woman said in a slight accent that couldn’t be placed, raising her head in a display of pride as she said her own name.

“Come. Sit.” She motioned for the girl to move through the beads and into the sitting room that smelled of vanilla candles, patchouli, and tea rose.

The girl looked around covertly, taking in the many colorful prints and statues of saints scattered around the room. They sat facing each other at a small round wooden table covered in a long-outdated floral cloth.

“Tell me, what do you want to know?” Rivka asked, a genuine smile warming her face.

Her eyes were friendly and held a glint of wisdom and insight, and the girl was instantly comforted in them.

“Well,” she hesitated, “I want to know about the usual…you know...life, love, money.”

“The same things we all want to know.” The woman chuckled, but with no hint of sarcasm. “Give me your hands,” she added, moving the flickering red candle aside to reach across the table.

Once more, the girl quickly wiped the inside of her hands against her denim and placed her hands into Rivka’s.

Rivka lowered her head and let out a breathy sigh. The girl, not sure if she too should close her eyes, squirmed once in her seat and cleared her throat.

After a few moments of quiet, Rivka broke the silence with a low moan that rumbled from within her. Some time went by without a word exchanged and then Rivka raised her head and looked directly at the girl. He face revealed no immediate information about what she had “seen” and the girl was beginning to get nervous.

“Let’s start with money, why don’t we,” Rivka said, and the girl nodded. “You have some problems right now with money.”

The girl was determined to not show in her face any signs that could give away additional information. “You owe a good bit of money and if they haven’t been calling you already, creditors will start harassing you soon.”

The girl’s eyes widened slightly. Those calls had already started.

“But don’t worry. Things will get better early next year for you financially. Don’t be afraid to treat yourself to the things you like, though. One thing about money is, it comes and it goes.”

“As far as work goes, your job, well, they are laying people off left and right.”

The girl made a conscious effort not to flinch—the woman was dead on. All month long, people had been let go and she had dreaded going in to work every morning for fear that she would be called into her boss’office with the same bad fortune.

“There is a good chance you could be laid off too, but if you want to help your chances, you can make an offering to St. Joseph.”

The girl looked confused and Rivka reached over at the shelf beside her and tapped on the head of a statue of a man clad in robes and holding a staff.

“St. Joseph is the patron saint of working people. Making an offering to him could very well save your job.” Rivka advised and the girl nodded obediently.

“Now,” Rivka swallowed, “for love.”

“Yes. Love,” the girl repeated with slight skepticism. For the last few years, love, for her, had consisted of snuggling up with her dog and a good book on Saturday nights.

“Don’t worry. I see love for you.” Rivka smiled, and the girl finally smiled back.

“It is?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course. You’re a beautiful girl. And even though your first marriage was so short and didn’t last—“ This time the girl could not hold back her reaction, as she shifted anxiously in her seat and ran her fingers through her hair. This woman was amazing—for her to know a secret that even her closest friends didn’t confirmed the woman’s special ability.

“—it doesn’t mean that true love won’t find you. I see a man.” The woman closed her eyes again. “He is tall. Very handsome. But more importantly, he is kind and very generous. When he comes into your life, I see that all your money problems will go away, too.”

The girl closed her eyes too, trying to envision this tall, dark knight that would come to save the day.

“But,” Rivka said sternly, and the girl opened her eyes, “I would strongly advise you to make an offering to St. Agatha.”

The woman pointed across the room to a lifesize statue of a woman donning a green robe and holding a branch in her hands. “She will make sure your prince finds you.”

“Do—do you see children?” The girl asked her first question.

“I do. I see you and your husband traveling the world first. Then he will give you a boy and a girl. Worry not, my dear. You will have your perfect family. Just be patient.”

The girl was relieved and let out a sigh that lowered her guard and eased her tense shoulders.

“We’re going into the next 30 minutes. Shall we continue?” the woman questioned.

The girl looked at her watch and contemplated staying to hear more.

“It will cost extra right?” she asked.

“Yes, but not much.”

“Why don’t we stop for today,” the girl suggested. “I can come back another time.”

“Okay. Things change, too. We make choices that change our course, so you must remember to see me often to help warn and guide you.” Rivka had a serious look on her face now.

“Thank you so much, Rivka. This was great.” The girl stood up and reached for her purse. “I’d like to make those offerings too. What do I have to do?”

“Good. Those offerings will ensure you protection for sure. What you can do is buy all these items—“ the woman handed her a long list that included things like myrrh and copper—things that the girl would have no clue where to get—“or you could give me the money to buy them for you to make the offering. Each offering is $25, plus the session fee, which is $40.”

The girl was taken aback by the cost, and realized that she only had enough to make one offering. She thought about it quickly, and since the woman had said her future husband would help ease her money problems (and also because love meant more than money) she decided to make the offering to St. Agatha.

She pulled out 3 twenty-dollar bills and a ten.

“Keep the change,” the girl said, feeling little guilt of spending money she should be saving to pay off her growing debt.

“Thank you, my dear.” Rivka reached out to hug her. “You make sure you keep your eyes open for that man now.” She winked and gave the girl’s hands one final squeeze.

“Thank you,” the girl said. They walked towards the door, passing one last time through the jingling beads; this time the girl let her fingers run along them gently, touching them as if they were prayer beads.

They said goodbye one more time, and the woman closed the door gently behind her. She slipped into her office in an adjacent room to check her schedule for her next appointment. Janice Simpson. She opened her laptop and typed the name in the program she had. Three pages of background information loaded onto the screen for Janice Simpson. Rivka studied the page thoroughly, reviewing her credit, work and personal history, then logged off.

As the girl pulled out of the driveway and down the street, feeling more hopeful than she had in months, a car approached, carrying another unwitting hopeful on her way to hear about all the good things to come in her foreseeable future.

Noisy Silence

He sat in between her legs, Indian-style. His arms slung over her knees like the broken wings of an albatross. His hair

stood out like a bushy crown. And as she leaned over to touch it, he felt her breasts on the back of his neck, and something stirred inside him. She began combing his hair, his neck snapping back with each stroke. Her touch felt soothing and he closed his eyes to enjoy, for now, the silence between them. He drifted off somewhere between the dream world and the real one— the real one being where he knew how he felt about a woman, this woman. And on this border, he went into a meditative trance, induced by her touch. His thoughts took on abstract shapes, which his mind translated into thoughts: I wonder how she would react if I told her what I really felt for her. Would she think I was crazy? Maybe I am, for letting myself care for someone who has already told me that she was not interested in love. “Not interested in love.” Not a phrase you’d hear many women say, or a phrase that many men—including myself once upon a time—would have a problem with. But of course, irony would have it that I’d fall for the one who was incapable of loving me back. She’d told me, in no uncertain terms, in those late night conversations--after the episodes of passion left us weary and our only functioning body parts were our mouths and minds--that she was leery of love. Her circumspect outlook leaves me more vulnerable than I’ve ever been, afraid to say how I really feel. She has no clue that she’s been the only woman I’ve been with for the three months we’ve been intimate, despite the fact that we agreed on no expectations and no commitments. She has no idea that that is a feat in and of itself for a man like me. But it’s her independence and strength that draws me to her. In a sardonic twist of fate, it is the freedom she wills me, that makes me realize she is the one I want to spend my time with. Even now, as she sits braiding my hair, she remains silent. This silence has become so loud that it is finally hurting my ears. Be a man, I tell myself as she weaves her fingers in and out of my hair the way she weaves herself in and out of my life. Get over this silly feeling. You only want what you can’t have, I try to justify my decision to hide my true feelings.

She was halfway done with his hair. Proud of her work, she cocked her head to the side, smoothing his cornrows down in self-admiration. She opened her mouth to speak, then reneged seeing that his eyes were closed.

I wonder what he dreams about when he sleeps, she thought moving on to the right side of his head. She wanted to lean over and kiss him on his neck, her favorite part of his body.

She never thought she would let a man get this close to her. Where, she, the progressive woman, sits braiding his hair like some submissive wife. It wasn’t half bad though. She could get used to taking care of someone other than herself. And as frightening as she felt actually feeling something genuine for someone, she could not bring herself to vocalize how she felt about him. She could never let herself be the nagging, whiny, emotional girlfriend who wanted to know “how you feeeel about me.” He saw her as strong and responsible. She could not disappoint him, or herself by being overzealous, even if inside she felt more than she could stand. He would have to be the one to come to her, emotionally, and open her up; otherwise she could not live with the possibility of rejection…not after what happened in the past. She had played that part one too many times. It had been ingrained in her that it was better to stand your ground, and shut your mouth until you knew all the facts, rather than end up being the fool, especially for love. So, that’s exactly what she would do.

Maintain the silence, until he showed her that it really was safe to come out of her shell.

She braided the last braid and softly nudged him awake.

“You’re done?” he asked.

“Yup.” He turned to look at her. Her eyes said so much. But what were they saying?

A lump in his throat, all he could manage to say was: “Thank you, baby.”

She blinked back her emotions and uttered: “You’re welcome...”

Endless Possibilities

At first glance, they appeared to be the happiest couple in the world. The couple walked into the bustling room, flashing their brilliant smiles, as they said their hellos to old friends and new faces. Yet, to the trained eye--to those who have mastered the art of pretense--there was something about the way they let go of each other's hands as soon as people weren't watching, the way he walked just a few feet ahead of her, that revealed that not everything that glitters is gold.

Not to say it wasn't love. It was. But on this night, their love would become something entirely different.

He whispered something in her ear, and for a moment, she remembered how his breath on her ear used to make her feel.

She watched him head towards the mini bar, and he returned shortly with an Australian Shiraz for her. He'd fulfilled his obligation and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

She mulled around for a bit, then settled in with a group of women--friends you might call them--when she saw him. He was standing alone, his gainly frame propped against the thyme green wall. It wasn't until his eyes, after slowly scanning in the room, rested on her, that she realized how instantly everything could change. In that moment, every voice in the room, each note of music, even the shuffle of feet against the wood floor, fell silent. Her heart began to race, but on the outside she appeared calm and collected, the stem of her glass of wine still held gingerly between her fingers. She knew that a coup d'etat had taken place in the still of the night, and he had come to overthrow her.

She felt the corners of her lips lift to a smile, and he lifted his glass to her with a half-nod. And then it all came rushing back, the noise (it hadn't been noise before, but now it all sounded like it), the voices, the sound of laughter, interrupting what was to her a sacred moment.

Someone on her left tapped her arm, and her eyes broke away from his seemingly nonchalant gaze. Another woman was asking her a question, something about the name of a soap opera that she'd never even watched. She laughed to herself, thinking of how some conversations were better held in silence.

She excused herself and walked in his direction. There was a sofa near the green wall--her feet hurt and she needed to sit.

At least that's what she told herself. This time, she avoided his eyes, looking instead at the other faces between him and her, smiling and speaking briefly with some. When she sat down, she let out a sigh and closed her eyes. She wished he would walk over to her, sit down beside her, and say something, anything to her. She swore that she could feel the warmth from his body wafting across the few feet that separated them, and oddly enough, she felt safe knowing he was there.

She heard footsteps approaching, and she tried not to smile, her eyes still closed. The sofa bounced gently as someone sat beside her. She opened her eyes and saw him--not him, but her fiancĂŠ. And for the first time, she was disappointed to see the man she had agreed to marry just weeks before.

"I'm going out back with some of the guys," he said. She said a simple "okay." She prayed, guiltily, that he would not kiss her, not here, not now, not in front of him. For whatever reason, God decided to grant her the selfish wish, and he hopped off the couch and disappeared again from sight.

She stole a furtive glance to the side and saw that he was gone. She looked around the room and couldn't find him anywhere. It had only been a few moments...had he been just a figment of her imagination? After several minutes, and a few random conversations later, she climbed the staircase to use the bathroom. She turned the knob to the bathroom door and found it was locked. She leaned against the wall, waiting, still thinking of him. The hairs rose up on her forearm as she wondered what he would feel like against her. She had never thought of someone else in this way when she was supposed to be "in love." She, a respectable woman! It was these kinds of random incidents that make one question everything they thought was real. She had to know his name, but how, without revealing her ulterior motives. This could never be, she thought, shaking her head side to side as if to dust the residuals of him off her.

The door squeaked open and he walked out.

"Mademoiselle..." he said smiling.

"Monsieur..." she replied with a daringly flirtatious smile.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting long," he added.

I'd wait any day for you, she thought to herself. But all she could conjure up was a shy shake of her head. She had to say something, quick! Or he'd walk off again, and this time, she'd probably never see him again.

"You look strangely familiar to me," she said, not knowing where the words were coming from.

"I don't think we've ever met," he responded.

"No, me either. That's what's strange about it," she answered.

He introduced himself, giving her his hand to shake. In the nanoseconds before she took it, the anticipation of touching him, even in this menial gesture, shook her to her core. And in the moment when their palms touched, she saw it all...the endless possibilities that lay before them. And when she let it go, she also saw the many obstacles that would stand in their way. As if controlled by an invisible force, her mind wandered and she imagined their first date--outside a vacuum of fantasy and wishful thinking. She could feel the way he'd touch her hand, stroking each of her fingers and squeezing them when his urges got too strong to control. She could feel the skin of his stomach against her hands as she slipped them under his shirt, she could taste his kisses already. But beyond the physical, she imagined a viable future--one in which they'd look back and laugh at the unusual circumstances under which they'd met.

"I guess I should go..." he said, pulling her out of her reverie. There was hesitation, question, doubt in his words.

"Yeah, me too," she said and slipped behind the bathroom door.

For the rest of the evening, her mind left the room and roamed with him, someplace far beyond the reaches of her imagination. Sure, she felt foolish, childish even, and certainly sinful. But his familiarity, her insatiable desire to know more of him, their unexplainable connection took precedence.

By the end of the night, when every avenue had been explored in her mind--of what he thought of her, of the way he looked when he slept, of the things that made him sad, of the ways in which she could adore him--she was convinced that she had lost her mind. Here she was, a relatively sane, sensible woman, completely smitten with a stranger. Yes, she was convinced, she had gone insane.

At the end of the evening, her fiancĂŠ brought her her coat, and she stole a last glance at him as she slipped her arms in the sleeves. He was saying something with his eyes--but she couldn't understand it. What? What are you saying to me? she wanted to yell out.

Her ears perked up as she caught part of a conversation nearby--something about how important timing was. How very apropos, she thought, as she chuckled to herself.

But then she began to feel afraid. Afraid that when she left, she'd still be able to smell him (from that moment in the hallway when he stood dangerously close to her), that later that night it would be his face she saw, his hands she'd feel on her body. But most of all, she was scared to death that she wouldn't be able to walk out that door the same woman who'd walked in. Her fiancĂŠ was in the doorway, reaching his hand out to her.

"You coming or what?" he asked as she stood paralyzed by the fear of walking away from a land, vastly unexplored, which she had only just discovered.

The Big Payback

This day could get no worse, she thought to herself. She pressed on the accelerator, pushing the car to nearly 90 miles

an hour. Warm tears clouded her vision and she couldn’t cared less about getting pulled over or wrapping her car around a tree. How could this have happened? What kind of damaging karma had she accrued to be punished like this? She had always been a kind-hearted person. Altruistic, generous and sometimes, way too sympathetic and naive. But this? Even this was too cruel for a world where God was supposed to be a fair and just God. “Shit! She screamed at the top of her lungs, banging her palms against the wheel. The man in the car beside her stared at her, then slowed down and changed lanes as if to prevent being infected with her anger.

It had just begun to get dark and along with dusk came the fear of tomorrow. What would she tell her family, her friends?

How could she accomplish anything with this ahead of her, like a collapsed bridge on the road to her future?

“Okay… okay.” She sighed, trying to calm herself down from a fit of hysterical crying. Then, she abruptly turned her wheel to the right to exit onto a ramp, ignoring the blare of horns behind her from the cars she’d carelessly cut off. Screeching to an abrupt halt, she pulled into a rest stop.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she reprimanded herself. “People are faced with this every day. Every…single… day. Why should I be the one who quits now?”

She leaned back in her seat and put her hands over her eyes.

In her moment of self-pity and worry, someone opened her car door and got in before she could react. She gasped and reached for her door handle when the man grabbed her right arm and shoved her back into the seat.

“You shut the hell up” he said calmly. Despite the hushed level of his voice, she knew he meant business.

“W–What do you want?” she glared at him with all the hate she could muster.

“Gimme yer money,” he said, pulling a silver gun out of his jacket pocket and shoving it into her right side.

“Here,” she said throwing her whole purse at him.

“Watch it, bitch,” he said. He was a sleazy looking, white male with a scruffy beard and torn, dirty clothes. His body odor, which seared her nostrils, was as unsanitary as he looked.

Angry and almost fearless, she spoke with disgust: “You smell like shit.”

He slapped her. Hard. She was taken aback by his sudden assault and held her jaw in awe.

“You shut yer fuckin’ mouth lady,” he said. He seemed to have an accent, she noticed. A slight southern drawl.

He emptied the contents of her purse onto his lap. He found her wallet and took out a twenty dollar bill and three ones.

“This it?” he said raising his voice one octave.

“This it,” she replied sarcastically.

He grabbed her by her hair as she yelped quietly.

“Well. I guess we gotta make up for it then, huh?” he said looking at her leeringly, his hot breath almost burning the side of her face.

Fear paralyzed her as she realized the severity of the situation she was in.

“Uhh, we can–we can, um, drive over to a money machine. I have more money,” she tried to reason, her eyes silently pleaded with him to just take the money and go. His eyes ogled the length of her body.

“Naw, sweetheart. Ah see somethin’ worth a lot more’n money,” he smirked. Ironically, he had a nice smile she thought for a fleeting moment.

“Please…” she whispered.

“Yeah, beg. I like it when ya’ll beg for it.”

“Please…don’t,” she pleaded.

“Pull up over there,” he said pointing to a dark, wooded area. She hesitated and he hit her again, this time with a closed fist across the same sore cheek. She started the car and drove slowly over to the spot. She left the car running, trying to plan an escape.

“Turn the engine off and gimme the keys,” he said.

She took heed to the order. Then, he began staring at her intensely.

“You kinda purty for a nigger,” he said softly, as if he’d just paid her a compliment.

“Thank you.” She answered with blatant sarcasm he didn’t even get, or maybe ignored.

He reached over her to pull the lever on her seat to recline it.

She squirmed under his weight and nearly suffocated from his stench but she did not make one sound as he forced himself on her, in her. Her body stiffened to paralysis and would only allow her tears fall and her mind to wander.

I lied, she thought. This day could get worse. When he was done, he leaned back and pulled a cigarette of hers from the space between the seats, and lit it as if they had just shared a satisfying lovemaking experience.

“Pretty good,” he sighed contently.

“Please…just get out. Just go,” she whimpered.

“Not after I git my money. Pull up there to the ATM,” he directed, throwing her the keys.

She looked around to see what he was talking about. She hadn’t even noticed a bank machine here. Apparently, this was familiar territory to him, because next to the restrooms, was a small bank drive-thru. She drove up to it and withdrew the most money the ATM would allow her to take out. Money she had slaved for, for months now, was gone. Just like that. He snatched the cash from her.

“A word of advice: next time don’t park in secluded areas, sweetheart,” he said with a sneer and dashed out of her car.

She leaned back again in her seat and assumed the same position she was in when he first intruded in on her. With her hands over her eyes, and now the burning pain in her groin, she began to sob. Suddenly, her sobs turned to laughter-hysterical, uncontrollable, maniacal laughter, when she remembered why she had pulled into the rest stop in the first place. Her rapist would not go unpunished. He had taken from her the most sacred of things and yet, she had given him the deadliest of viruses. With tears of both laughter and agony soaking her face, she drove herself to a hospital. To her, it didn’t matter whether her attacker had previously contracted the virus. She only gloated in the satisfaction that this dehumanizing experience may have resulted in the biggest payback ever.

A Good Distraction

"Flight 1130 to Boulder, Colorado, is still delayed. We ask that all passengers please remain in the boarding area until further notice," the peppy voice of the announcer boomed over the loud speaker. Anna let out a sigh, partially relieved that she wouldn't have to get on the plane just yet.

The storm was buying her more time to wallow in the misery of her day and the fear of her impending trip. She sat slumped in the chair in the waiting area, wishing she was in bed instead, sipping on a cup of the sweetest hot chocolate she could get her hands on. Her eyes were fixed blankly on the enormous windows before her, the snow coming down almost horizontally against the deep grey sky. It was a beautifully melancholy scene, and fit her mood well.

She stretched and looked around as her legs stiffened in a V before her. It was then that she caught a glance of a man, sitting with his arms folded across his chest, smiling at her. She smiled back, though she knew it must have come across as forced. She was wrong: he stood up and walked over to her, and pointed to the empty seat beside her.

"Do you mind?" he asked, his voice friendly and welcoming.

"Why not," she replied, barely sounding inviting.

"I'm Tom," he said, extending his hand to her.

"Anna."

"I figured we might as well keep each other's company since it looks like it's gonna be a long wait," he explained.

"Besides, I think we're the only two young, single people on this flight."

Was he trying to hit on her? she thought, not really sure why a yuppie white guy would be bold enough to approach a black woman.

"You're not from around here are you?" she asked.

"No...on a connecting flight. How do you know though?"

"Look around you."

He did and saw that she was one of a handful of black women in a sea of white faces, and the few other African Americans were with one another. This, after all, was not a state known for its racial integration and tolerance.

"So?" he said after scanning the room. "I'm surprised that no one else has had the courage to come up to you by now. I gotta tell ya, you're gorgeous."

She smiled, this time sure it was coming off as genuine.

"Well, thank you. Although I don't particularly feel beautiful right now."

"Oh? Well, you look great to me."

This guy was good. It was probably a line he had used in countless bars wherever he was from.

"So this is what white guys say to pick up chicks, huh? I've always wondered about that." She laughed.

"Well, we usually tailor it to fit the woman--a beautiful woman--beer goggles off, gets only my best pick-up lines."

"Funny." She smiled.

"Plus you've got a killer smile. That's my weakness, you know."

She giggled. "Good to know...."

They sat talking for a while, she explaining to him the reason for her trip across the country, he giving her the ear she needed to vent some of her frustrations. And as they talked more, she began to notice the little things about him that didn't seem so different from any black guy she'd ever dated; the twinkle in his eye, the way the muscles in his forearms stood out when he balled his fingers up in a fist, the wetness of his lips when he licked them inadvertently. Something clicked in her and for the next hour she forgot about all her woes.

"Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention please? Unfortunately, Flight 1130 to Boulder, Colorado, has been canceled until the storm passes." There was a unanimous sigh of frustration heaved by the crowd. "The flight is being rescheduled for 7 a.m., and US Air will be providing hotel rooms for passengers overnight. Will interested passengers please form a line at the boarding gate to get information on how to get a room? Thank you and we apologize for the inconvenience."

Tom and Anna looked over at each other, raising their eyebrows in defeat.

"Looks like today really isn't my lucky day," she said.

"Maybe...but for me it is," he replied with a sly, sexy glimmer in his eye.

Anna smiled coyly, beginning to enjoy the flattery he was gracing her with.

"I don't need a room...7 o' clock is only 6 hours from now, and I don't think I could sleep anyway. I may just hit the bar and soak up my sorrows with a glass of wine....you're welcome to join me if you like," she said, emboldened by their unspoken advances.

He stood up, reached out his hand to her and said, "I'd love to."

They sat in the dimly lit bar, ignoring the rude glances of people. He pulled his chair as close to her as possible, and she could smell the way his cologne blended with the musky, masculine scent of a man 12 hours overdue for a shower.

Maybe it was the pheromones, but the way he looked at her, as if she were this exotic beauty that he'd sacrifice all he could just to touch, taste and experience her, turned her on. And she too began wondering how different--or similar--it would feel to be intertwined with a man of another race.

A bottle of wine later, he leaned over to her and whispered in her ear--his breath warm and smooth on the most tender part of her skin.

"You know, I wouldn't hold it against you if you wanted me." He leaned away and shot her a smile that lit his face up.

Before she could respond, she caught the harsh stare of two women, telling her in their silent accosting, that she didn't belong with him.

She reached over, took his unshaven face in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips. When she sat back up in her chair, she noticed that he was immobile in the same position, his eyes still closed as if to remain in the moment. She also noticed that the two women had left in a huff, their chairs scraping loudly on the tile floor.

"Wow," he whispered. "That felt amazing."

"Well, what'd you expect?" she asked, wondering now if this was a good idea, if she was just a novelty for him.

"Nothing less, sweetheart."

His answer eased her paranoia.

"Let's get out of here," she said, this time grabbing his hand.

They spent the last three hours of their wait in a hotel room together, dispelling and confirming the myths they both had about what it was to be with someone so different from the other.

And in the hours that they pleased and comforted each other, every inhibition left outside their hotel room door, they found love in the form of solace. It wasn't a love that would withstand the test of time, or the prejudices of society, but it was love nonetheless.

And when they returned to the gate, and boarded their plane, they found two empty seats beside each other and sat down.

He reached over and kissed her passionately.

"You are something else, Anna," he said stroking her tousled hair back. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat as the plane lifted from the ground.

He took her hand in his, stroking each of her fingertips as if to remember every crease in them forever. And only for abrief moment, just before the plane touched down hours later, was she pulled back into her stressful reality--the purpose of her trip, to say goodbye to someone she loved dearly. The heaviness returned quickly to her chest and she kicked herself for allowing herself to be put in a situation where she would have to say farewell to yet another person.

When they disembarked from the plane, Tom and Anna walked together in silence, he standing dangerously close to her still. At the baggage claim, they stood watching the conveyor belt go round and round, filling up each time with more bags.

“This,” she said pointing to the conveyor belt, “is a metaphor for my life.” She was thinking about all the emotional luggage she carried every day that she went through life.

"Let me help ease that for you then," he said as he reached over and grabbed his suitcase from the belt. "One down...," he said flashing an empathetic smile.

When they got their bags, he walked her over to the cab stand.

"Can we keep in--" he began to say.

She put her fingers on his lips, then replaced them with the sweetest, most supple kiss she'd given any man. She stepped back, looked into his blue-green eyes and mouthed, "Thank you."

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but knew that when she got into that cab, she'd be gone forever. So he chose instead to revel in the moment, to remember the way her skin felt earlier that night, to remember the pleasure they'd given each other just hours ago, to silently wish her well.

She got in the cab, and flashed him her best smile yet--one that expressed every ounce of gratitude she had for the much needed distraction he'd provided her with. He placed his palm on the window, still yearning to touch her, even as the car drove away.

The Old Man and the Beach

H

e looked out over the horizon--where the Earth seemed to end--at the blended pastel colors of the sky. In all his years of being on this beach, he had never seen such harmony in the way the water, the sky and the sun blended.

It was almost prophetic.

And as if on cue, in his periphery, he saw her.

She came floating down the beach, wrapped in gauzy white linen, oblivious to his presence. She looked like the bride he never had. The one he still could have.

And then she too saw him, and the quizzical look in her eyes showed her struggle to remember him.

Finally it came like a tidal wave of epic proportions, and the memories nearly knocked her off her feet.

She had known him before, in one or many former lives. They were two souls connected for all eternity, but doomed to evade each other in this lifetime. Perhaps they had existed previously as mother and child, brother and sister, and once, even as king and queen. They had a history of love that preceded time itself, which could not be expressed in human terms. Fighting that inevitability had always kept them from ever truly finding the true potential of their lives. When, they wondered subconsciously, would this ongoing cycle ultimately be broken?

One thing was for certain: It would not be today.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, telepathy was their language: “We belong together. There is nothing about you that wasn’t made to complement me. We fit together, like two hands locked in prayer,” one thought.

“My life was near perfect; the only thing missing from it has always been you,” the other responded.

He remembered how he had seen her in everyday things--in his own mother's face, in his first love's touch, in his children's laughter--and her intangible love had marked an epoch in each of his lives. He had never escaped the grasp of her heart from their existence past.

But because miles would part them, the parallel of their lives widened, leaving him eternally stranded in between two lines. She would drift farther into the recesses of his memories, but would never fully exit stage left.

And now here she was, before him, as beautiful as he had always envisioned she would be, her silver hair glistening like a halo against the shimmer of the undulating ocean.

And then a man walked up beside her, and took her hand, breaking their silent communication, stealing whatever reparation could have been. She took the man's hand and held it, though not as firm as she had always held it before.

This man looked at them and saw something suspicious, something eerily ancient, something that made his own love for her pale in comparison and he felt overshadowed by it all.

As they walked past the old man, she flashed a familiar smile that made his heart race as if he were guilty of something unforgivable. And as if the radiance of her smile were enough to illuminate the skies, the sun disappeared behind the curve of the world, leaving behind only a dim serenity that would stay with him for this life and the next.

[Single] Mother's Day

The pain from her headache was as unbearable as staring directly into the sun. She glanced in the rearview mirror to

check herself out. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going anywhere special. She looked at the clock on the dashboard and pressed lightly on the accelerator. She couldn’t afford to be late picking her son up from daycare. It would cost her a dollar a minute after 5 p.m. Her mind raced over the events of her day at work. The reports she had to finish by Monday, or else…the late meeting next week she’d have to attend and the babysitter she’d have to find for her son. God! This was supposed to be the weekend, and here she was still stressing about work. She glanced at her gas gauge and sighed. It was almost empty. And with gas prices as high as they were, so would be her pockets. She turned off the air conditioner to conserve her fuel and rolled down the windows. The blare of horns, the synthetic heat emitting from cars, and the carbon monoxide from their engines did nothing for her migraine. Maybe some music would help. The radio played nothing but the same ten songs over and over and over again. She switched to a more relaxing jazz station and tried to just breathe.

At exactly 4:59 p.m. she pulled up to the daycare and raced inside. The best part of her day was seeing her boy playing with his friends, looking so mature already. She’d call his name and he’d turn in her direction and give her the smile that seemed to take away all of her problems. Temporarily, at least. He ran to her as she knelt down and he wrapped his little arms around her neck.

“Mama!” he said, flaunting one of the few words he knew so far.

“Hi, baby. How are you?” she replied, planting kisses all over his face. This almost made it all worth it. “If only…” she thought, looking around at the other couples that were picking their children up, “…if only, I had someone to be there for me.”

She had always been an independent woman. But she never anticipated being alone in the one endeavor of life that truly required the presence of two people. A mother and a father. She had long put away the thought of reconciling with her ex-husband. He was off, living his life, as the proud father who would never get the father-of-the-year award.

She swooped her son up in his arms, savoring his joyous laughter, and walked towards her car. I’m not really alone, she thought, still trying to shake of the feeling of despair and loneliness. She had her son, for one thing, and she also had Dominic, her boyfriend of ten months. He was as kind to her son as anyone. He treated him as if he were his own. And she loved him for that. But how long could a man remain in love with a woman with so many responsibilities and such preoccupation, while he had plans of his own to carry out? He was a musician, whose aim was to tour the country playing the music he loved. He sometimes talked about how he wished he’d met her five years earlier, so that they could travel the world together. And she sometimes resented him for saying that. She could not see him staying with her much longer. It saddened her because her son would miss him. And so would she. But she’d resigned herself to the fact that he would choose his passion over a life with a prefabricated family, as would anyone in their right mind. Dominic had expressed in the past how he’d always dreamed of marrying his wife, traveling the world with her for several years and then having some children. The first part wasn’t going to happen the way he’d wanted it to. The last part had already come to fruition, except that it wasn’t his child.

She pulled up to her house and entered it. Her son was tired, as usual, and began throwing a tantrum when she put him down. He’d missed her all day, and when she finally got a chance to spend some time with him, she, too, was exhausted.

She put him in his highchair and began making dinner. Even the noise from his toys agitated her headache. The phone rang and she reached to answer it--her hands soiled with flour.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, Mrs. Osman?” the voice said. It was a bill collector.

“It’s Ms. Osman. And I’m really busy right now, please call back another time.”

“Ms. Osman, it’s important that we receive your payments on your Visa card before Friday of next week,” the voice instructed.

“I told you last week, that I don’t have it. I still don’t have it….please…just give me a break here,” she said and hung up the phone regretfully. The phone rang again but she did not answer it this time. It’s supposed to be Mother’s Day for chrissakes. At least Dominic would come over tonight. Maybe he could take her boy out for a walk so that she could take a nap. When dinner was almost ready the doorbell rang. It was probably him, always in time for some food, she smiled to herself. She picked up the baby and went to open the door, rubbing her temples with her free hand. He was standing there, with a Cheshire grin on his face and one hand behind his back.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” he said pulling out a bouquet of beautiful sunflowers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said kissing him on the cheek. She’d expected that much in the least. He’d always been a thoughtful man.

They sat down for dinner, the three of them, as if they were a real family, the family she’d always wished she would have.

“Guess what?” Dom said.

“What, baby?”

“We got several gigs lined up for the summer. I’ll be gone for about a month-and-a-half in June.”

“That’s great, babe,” she said, the feeling of abandonment creeping back.

“I’m so excited. This is it, baby girl. We’re gonna be big time now.”

“I always knew you would,” she said touching his hand.

“I want to show you something…I’ll be right back–I think I left it in the car– you’re gonna love this…” he said dashing out of his seat and the kitchen.

“Well, it’s just me and you, boy,” she said to her son, who was playing happily and obliviously with his food.

Dominic returned with some papers–probably some sheets of music he always enjoyed sharing with her–and his trusty red acoustic guitar.

“Listen to this. I wrote a new song, and I want you to tell me what you think…” He held the guitar in place and began strumming it to create the beautiful sounds he was so good at.

“A chance meeting…Starting on new grounds…Moments fleeting…While we bond…Why did this appear…At a time that seems all wrong?…With minds unclear…Crowded with old love songs…”

She stopped and looked down at her plate. It was coming. The feared finale. She expected it to come, but never imagined it would hurt this much. She felt the tears well up in her eyes and her head felt like it would explode at any given moment.

“But optimism reigns supreme…And perhaps time will make room…For new experiences and dreams…Sung in a new tune…So I’m asking my ba-by…The love of my life...will you let me…make you my wife…?”

Utterly taken aback, she looked up at him. In his hand, he held a ring, and on his face a frightened look that revealed his fear of the rejection he thought would come. The tears that began as tears of pain, changed to something indescribable when she reached over the table, knocking down the glasses of water, to kiss him. And suddenly, for the first time today, her head stopped aching.

Speak the Truth

“I

just want to hear the truth from you. Please, just tell me the truth.” The desperation that laced his words was as heavy as the humidity of the mid-summer day.

“No one really wants to hear the whole truth,” I reply, knowing that what I’d just said was the truth.

“Why do you always speak in riddles? Why can’t you just say what you mean?”

“Don’t I? ” I look directly at him. “Do you? Does anyone?”

He sighs.

“I give up. I give up trying to understand you. From now on you’ll just be the mystery it seems you want to be,” he says and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. My Starry Night replica hanging crookedly rattled on the wall in response to his frustration.

I stood to face it. The door, that is. Wishing my problem would just vanish, the way a handkerchief or dove disappears at a magician’s touch. But it won’t. I was born with this and will most likely die with it.

My mother used to tell me—in that voice that only mothers use when they are trying to placate their distressed childthat I have a special gift from God, that I should feel blessed to have it. No matter how believable she was, I’d still always pray each night for him to take it back.

I decide to go after him. I care too much to just let him go like this. I walk across the street to where my car is parked.

Three men are standing near my apartment building, smoking Newports and taking swigs from paperbag-clad bottles.

Eyes to the pavement, I walk past them, knowing just what to expect.

“Damn, look at that ass. I would kill for a piece of that.”

I glance back and summoned the most evil look I could invoke. He leers at me with bloodshot eyes that cloud not only his vision, but it would appear his sense of morality as well. Disgusted, I pick up my pace to hurry away from him.

I cross the street into the sunshine, savoring it on my arms and face when a woman headed in my direction glares at me.

“Look at this one. Struttin’ like she better than somebody. You ain’t all that Missy.”

“I never said I was,” I say to the scantily dressed young woman, who stops in her tracks to stare at me, her brow furrowed in confusion. I keep walking.

And then the thoughts that inevitably preoccupy my mind bully their way into my head. Why are people so cruel? What makes us jealous and rude and just downright mean? How can people who are supposed to be spiritual beings be so evil at times? I shake my head, resigning myself to the fact that I’ll never fully understand it.

I walk over to my car and get inside. I’ve decided what to talk to him about. I must make him see that I do care for him.

That I have told him the truth. Well, maybe not the whole truth. But perhaps today I’ll tell it all.

Lost in thought, my brakes screech to a halt to avoid hitting the cat in the street. Fear. It is so strong it shakes me up a bit.

I calm myself and press gently on the accelerator.

A few minutes later, I pull up to his home. I must be brave, I tell myself. Tell him the truth.

I ring the bell and his mother answers the door.

“Hello, darling,” she says and reaches in to hug me.

“Hi, how are you?” I reply.

“Fine, fine. It’s good to see you,” she says smiling. “ And have you come to seduce my son today? To corrupt him with your feminine wiles?”

“Actually, no. I’ve come to speak the truth. You should try it sometime,” I say and walk past her, leaving her, mouth agape. I walk down to the basement where he lives. He is laying on his futon, watching football on TV. “Hey,” I say. Joy. And then, relief, emanates from him.

“Hey,” he says, seemingly unperturbed. Yes, he is still upset.

“I came to talk.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t think I love you?”

“I can’t always tell. Sometimes you’re just so callus,” he replies.

“Well, I do. I just— I have some problems— issues with people’s sincerity.”

“Your problems don’t bother me. I accept you just the way you are.”

Did I hear him correctly?

“Excuse me?” I say, just to be sure I’d actually heard what he said. If, in fact, he had said it at all.

“I didn’t say anything. You were talking about your problems,” he replies. That’s what I thought. I smile and continue.

“Well, like I was saying, I have some issues I need to deal with,” I explain.

“Okay, but what could you have to deal with that would make you so cold towards me?”

“Babe, it’s not you.”

“Oh, that!” he says sarcastically.

“I’m being serious!”

“Can’t you see how much I’m in love with you?” His hurt and devotion are apparent, but only to me–though he’s said nothing. The tears stream down my face.

“Why are you crying?” He reaches out to me.

“I can read—” I hesitate, then: “Nothing. I’m happy. You make me happy,” I say.

“You are?”

“Yes I am,” I say letting myself finally rest in the crook of his arm. I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, the truth is clear to me. I am happy because not only am I privy to people’s bad thoughts, but their good ones as well. I am happy because I realize that although some people don’t speak the truth, they’re still thinking it.

Miss Sweet Tooth

"Spare some change?"

"No money. Sorry."

And sorry I was. Sorry that a fellow human being had to be at the mercy of someone else. That she had nowhere to call home. That she had to sleep on steam holes to keep warm. Sorry that her life had crumbled before her own eyes.

I saw her yesterday, and have seen her every day that I've walked this road. She always asks me for money and never says anything else. I give her when I can, but to me, it never seems adequate. I used to sometimes look to catch her gaze in attempts to ask for forgiveness. I think she sees my smiles right before I walk away.

But today, I turn around to walk back towards her. I don't know what has come over me, but it feels like an invisible force is drawing me to her. When she notices me approaching her, I see a confused but relieved expression in her eyes.

"Are you hungry?” I ask spontaneously.

"I'm always hungry," she says simply, softly.

“Then come with me,” I insist, and we begin walking slowly but deliberately to some unnamed location.

Neither one of us speaks a word until we are seated in the restaurant I’d absent-mindedly selected.

"My name is Teahde," I say. She looks at me blankly. I don't know what to say. Maybe she thinks I am crazy. Maybe I am.

"I don't need you to pity me," she speaks finally.

"I can't help it. I don't pity you, per se, I pity the way you're forced to live," I respond.

"Chile, no offense but, what in the hell do you know about my life?" she asks me harshly.

"I may not know how it feels to be hungry and cold all the time, but I've been cold before so I know how that feels, and I've been starving many of times, too. Sometimes pain is pain," I say feeling my own frustrations boiling in me. She sees it and her face softens.

"I'm sorry. I was rude to you. I mean, here you are giving me a warm meal and I am being ungrateful. Thank you." She looks down at the menu, thawing her hands in her lap.

"What's your name, ma'am?" I ask.

"They used to call me Miss Sweet Tooth." She smiles in reminiscence of something. "My real name is Theresa. Theresa Jones-Muhammed."

"Why do they call you that?" I ask curiously.

"They did. No one calls me nothin' no more,” she says sadly. Then her face lights up as if she is reminded of good times.

"But back in my day, way before your time, chile, I used to bake all types of goodies for folks in my neighborhood. You name it, I had it. All kinds of cookies, cakes, pies. I had coconut pies, pumpkin, sweet potato, apple--fresh apples and cinnamon, mind you. I had it all. Fresh-baked rolls, all types of muffins." My mouth waters just listening to her.

"But the authorities said I needed some license to sell. Even out of my own home. Can you believe that?"

"But the authorities said I needed some license to sell. Even out of my own home. Can you believe that?"

I nod my head.

"They never liked me from the beginning anyways. I should have known they'd be trouble, those damn rednecks.”

"Where was this?" I ask.

"I'm from Georgia. Deep, deep in the heart of southern Georgia. I always wanted to leave that place. Unfortunately, I was forced to. I miss those kids, sometimes. Every day there was some snot-nosed rascal at my screen door. 'Miss Sweet Tooth, you got any almond brownies?' they would say. And I would say 'Did you ask your mama?' and even if they hadn't, they said yes. All the wives came to me for their bakery needs. That’s what pissed the town’s baker off. He called the ‘thorities on me. Nooo, we couldn't have no black woman selling food to the rest of the colored folk. They wanted what little money we had,” she says, her eyes somewhere far, far away. “I hope they all rot in hell," she sighs.

"Wow. So how did you come all the way here?" I ask anxiously.

"No white man or woman would give me work after I tried to fight them in the court. I even lost my home. I took what little money I owned and moved here. I was coming to my husband. We were estranged at the time, but he welcomed me. Yeah, that was a joyous time in my life. We fell in love all over again. We finally had the child we always wanted. A girl.

Her name is Trisah."

"Pretty," I mumble.

"Ain't it? His name was Salaam. He was African. Muslim, too.

I remember how he used to say in his thick accent, ‘Woman, don't cook me no pig.'" Her eyes beam with light as she recollects a time in her life that is apparently one that she treasures.

"Where is he?"

"Dead and gone," she says dryly.

"Where is Trisah?" I question.

"They took her. I wasn't fit to be a mother," she says in disgust. "After Salaam passed I tried to look for a job, I tried my damndest to take care of my child or get some help for us, but times was rough. I couldn’t find a job, even the worst ones, to save my life. Literally, I ‘spose now. So after a while, when things went from bad to worse and a neighbor saw that we were living with no lights on, they came and took her. They took my baby girl the very day she called me 'mama'. I got a picture of her in here somewhere," she says hurriedly, looking through her soiled, crowded bag, trying to hide from me the agony in her face.

She hands me a worn black and white picture of herself, a handsome dark-skinned man– Salaam I suppose– and a precious baby girl. Her eyes were wide and bright like her mother's seem to have been in the photograph.

She was decked out in an African ensemble; down to the tiny head wrap and miniature gold bangles were astounding.

"She looks like you, Miss Theresa," I say.

"I almost forgot how it feels to hear your own name being called,” she states.

"And with much respect," I add.

The waiter approaches us, eyeing my new friend as if she didn’t belong. I feel her discomfort and glare at him, admonishing his rudeness and proceed to order our meals.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asks me.

"I don't know. I wanted to meet you. To talk to you. I wanted you to know that someone cares. You might think I feel sorry for you, but all I want to do is show compassion in my own little way. This isn't charity work for me. It's… it’s love," I explain. She accepts my sincerity.

"So tell me about yourself, Teahde," she requests.

"Umm, well, I've lived here all my life. I live alone on the West Side. I work near here at a record store. I want to sing, Miss Theresa," I say excited to share my own story with some who cares to listen.

"Oh yeah? Let me hear you. Sing something," she says.

"Here? Now?" I ask stupefied.

"No, when I'm dead and gone," she jokes sarcastically.

Even with those flippant words, I feel a sinking feeling, and think of a quote I once read in an old book in the library: ‘No man is an island... Any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’”

Eventually brushing it off, I clear my throat to sing. When I am finished "Stormy Blues", I see tears forming in her eyes.

"I know that song, " she whispers.

"I love Billie Holiday. I wish I'd been alive when she was at the peak of her career," I say trying to wash away the sorrow.

"Chile, you ain't never seen nothin' 'til you saw Billie blowin'. Mmn mmn, mmn," she says snapping out of her sadness. "So where are your folks?"

"My mother lives upstate. I never knew my father," I say.

"Shame. You're such a sweet child," she replies. "You see your Mama a lot?"

"Well, I try but I hardly have time…" " You gotta make time, honey. You only got one Mama. You remember that. I myself never had a mama. She died in childbirth. And Daddy slept with everything that walked. He ain't had time for six kids. Go visit your Mama."

"I will. Maybe…” I don’t know where the words are coming from– it is like another being possesses me. “… Maybe, one day you can take the train up there with me. My treat," I suggest.

"Maybe." I can tell that she is saying it just to pacify me.

"So where do you sleep?" I question with concern.

"Wherever it's warm in the winter and wherever it's safe during the summer. Sometimes I can go to a shelter. Those folks are nice."

"But how do you make it…survive I mean?" I ask almost incredulously.

"I know you think I could easily get a job but I'm just lazy like the rest of them, right?"

"I'm hurt that you think that low of me already, Miss Theresa." I say sincerely.

"I'm sorry, baby. I just get real angry sometimes."

"I can imagine."

"You can't get a job without an address, you know? And no one wants to hire a 64-year-old southerner who never went past the 6th grade, and who's been homeless for nearly twenty years," she states. I say the words in my head: twenty years. Almost all my life. Twenty years of trials and tribulations this woman has endured. She suddenly becomes the strongest person alive I knew.

"There are organizations that help now," I say.

"They help some. Not much though. It's like putting cookies in a cold oven to bake. They never do."

Our meal arrives and I catch a glimpse of happiness in her eyes. The duration of the meal is comfortable and peaceful.

Our conversations are filled with symbolic stories and colorful anecdotes. At one point, I tell her that when I am famous, I will buy her a bakery of her own. I assure her that my word is my bond.

Then the laughs dissipate as the moment of departure approaches, unwelcomed. When she goes to the restroom. I instinctively reach in my purse to pull out the hundred-dollar bill Mama mailed me for Christmas. I slip the bill into her coat pocket before she returns to the table.

"It's been real nice chattin' with you, Teahde. I hope you do become rich and successful, even more than Lady Day was.

You deserve it."

"And what do you deserve, Miss Theresa?" I ask.

"Only God in heaven knows what He has in store for me."

"I just can't let you walk back into the cold," I plead.

"Please, honey. I can take care of myself. Don't nobody mess with me," she says adamantly. But I see the fear beneath her forced smile.

"Will you at least come home with me tonight. It would make me feel better. I would be able to sleep better," I ask.

"No, no I can't do that. You got enough things on your little shoulders to worry about," she says hastily.

"I bet my shoulders are stronger than yours," I say. "Plus all that talk of cookies got me fiending for some. Will you at least bake some almond brownies for me?" I say, trying to give the perfect reason for her to stay with me.

She gazes lovingly into my eyes.

"How could I say no to eyes that look so much like my Trisah's."

I take her hand now, and this time we have a destination.

"Thank you, Miss Sweet Tooth," I say planting a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek.