The early morning sun silhouetted Denise Daniels’ naked body
against the balcony wall. Her nipples, hardened by the crisp morning
air, tingled as the cool air sensuously glided over her breasts. She
raised her anguished face to the new day. Thick fringed hazel eyes
filled with distress, pain, and regret silently pleaded with God for
strength. Her slim, honeyhued hand ran through sleep-mussed hair.
"I can’t go through with this." With troubled eyes, Denise peeked
through the French balcony doors at her sleeping fiancé, Robert
Jackson. He lay in his king-size, black-satin-sheeted brass bed with a
muscled arm thrown across his face. She watched disgustedly as a
gob of spit trickled from the corner of his gaping mouth, trailed
down his chin, and formed a miniature pond on his prized satin
sheets. Discomfited, Denise fidgeted with her two-carat diamond
engagement ring, not relishing what the new day would bring. She
shook her head sadly to herself.
"I don’t love him enough to make a lifetime commitment. It won’t be
fair to either of us to go through with this." Denise worried her full
bottom lip. "But a number of women would kill to be in my shoes."
Robert was a black man in corporate America, with a fabulous job,
making big bucks, driving a good car, and with connections in Atlanta’
s black elite. He was on the fast track at an international software
development company, where he was being groomed for
a vice president’s position. Denise’s lips curled in contempt at her
motives for wanting to get married. By marrying Robert, she was
guaranteed a slice of the American apple pie. Not just a slice, but the
whole damn pie, with two scoops of ice cream on top. She could
live the "American dream" that every woman desires. A house in the
suburbs with the two kids. Two cars parked in the driveway, one of
them preferably, a sport utility vehicle. Not!
Denise ran her index finger along the balcony’s wooden rail,
recalling the day she’d met Robert. A vision of her knight in shining
armor--more accurately, her African King in a BMW--coming to her
rescue overshadowed her tumbling thoughts. That morning didn’t
get off to a good start. She’d spent thirty minutes scouring her closet
for her sexy, but I-can-hang-with-the-best-of-them-in-corporate-
America, conservative blue Anne Klein suit before she realized that
she’d dropped it off at her dry cleaners two weeks ago.
She settled instead on a black two-piece suit from an unknown
designer that simply stated, yes-I’m-here-in-corporate-America-
please-forgive-my-fashion-faux pas. That was also the morning she
ran out of her favorite shade of Fashion Fair lipstick and
mascara. Make-up-less and pissed off, Denise hurried out of her
townhouse to make her interview on time.
She remembered easing into the traffic on Interstate 75, and heaving
a sigh of relief. The morning rush hour traffic flowed smoothly, with
none of the horrific pileups that Atlanta is famous for. She was back
on track, everything was going to be fine.
Until the unthinkable happened. The most heart-stopping, fingernail-
biting, steering-wheel-clutching incident she’d ever experienced.
Her tire blew out, right in the middle of morning rush hour traffic. Her
car spun crazily out of control, narrowly missing several speeding
vehicles. Fortunately, it spun onto the shoulder of the expressway
and out of the dangerous flow of traffic.
Robert, her savior, was watching Denise’s harrowing experience
from the safety of his car. She stood stock-still, heart pumping wildly,
as a human pit bull slid out of his silver BMW and headed in her
direction. Robert’s soft, black, tailored suit hugged his massive
shoulders. A Hermes shirt and matching tie enhanced his bulging
muscles.
Five-ten, pecan-colored, built like a professional weight lifter, and
with a huge shaved head, Robert presented an intimidating
presence. He offered Denise the use of his cell phone to call Triple A
for assistance and to call her interviewer to let him know that she
was going to be late. He stayed with her to ensure that the
mechanics fixed her tire properly.
While they waited for the mechanics, Denise took the opportunity to
get to know the fierce-looking brother. She discovered that Robert,
the oldest male of a brood of four siblings, possessed all the
characteristics of the oldest child according to the birth order theory.
A classic over achiever with a Type A personality, he had gone to
Harvard for his undergrad studies in business. Then, not
wanting to miss out on experiencing a historically black school, he
got his MBA from Howard. Denise learned that he was an avid patron
of the arts, lover of foreign films and he golfed. She remembered
thinking she had finally found a brother who shared her
taste for the finer things in life. From there started a two-year
whirlwind relationship.
Denise and Robert took the term BUMP, Black Upwardly Mobile
Professionals, and turned it into a religion "BUMPism." They didn’t
dine at a restaurant without consulting the local food critic’s daily
newspaper column. Clothes that didn’t sport a designer label
didn’t rate a glance. Vacations were expensive and frequent. Trips to
Hawaii, Martha’s Vineyard, and the Bahamas were common
occurrences. Neither batted an eye when the
travel agent quoted the price for their three-week European
honeymoon.
Trembling from the brisk morning air, Denise wrapped her
honeyhued arms around her sleek body for warmth. Still reluctant to
return to the bedroom, she continued her musings. It was after they
got engaged, that she began to realize that their relationship
was not as perfect as she had thought. During that time, she
discovered that she was losing a part of herself. If she expressed an
opinion that Robert didn’t like, he would accuse her of not loving
him. His idea of love was a couple thinking as a single unit,
with one brain, his. I don’t think so!
And the sex was dismal, it was so fucking predictable! Robert wanted
it on the same days, at the same time, and in the same position. He
was clueless on how to satisfy a black woman. Her personal mission
was to energize their lackluster sex life. She eagerly took it on as
her "project." To give Robert some new ideas, she bought a better
sex video that was advertised in the back of a woman’s magazine
that she frequently read. He watched it once and promptly
deemed the actors stilted and wooden. She reminded him that they
were not Sieskel & Ebert.
They were looking for new ways to spark up their sex life, not rate a
wannabe Oscar-winning feature film. To the best of her knowledge,
the video was on some shelf right now collecting dust. She had taken
an even bolder approach by guiding his hand during lovemaking,
but to no avail. Robert would appease her and acquiesce to her
wishes for a couple of weeks, but after that, it was back to his same
old tired sex routine. When she found out that he did not want to
change his sexual technique (according to him, the problem was all
her fault), she learned to satisfy herself. After they had Robert’s
version of sex, she would sneak into the bathroom and masturbate
herself to fulfillment.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Denise silently watched a flock of
birds soaring together in the sky, dipping and gliding lightly through
the azure blue without a care in the world.
Free. Determined to handle her business, she squared her
shoulders, braced herself for the inevitable, and returned to the
semi-dark bedroom. Shivering, she bent down to retrieve her
silk robe that Robert had ripped off her in one of his rare moments of
passion.
Securely tying the belt around her svelte body, she studied Robert’s
sleeping form. He’s not that bad, she rationalized. While she felt
around the carpeted floor in the muted darkness with chilled feet for
her slippers, a vivid picture of last night’s you-done-stepped-on-my-
last-nerve incident popped in her head.
She and Robert were having dinner at Lorna’s, one of Atlanta’s
premier soul food restaurants, having returned from the movies after
watching a number-one-breaking-all-the-records-crazy-money-
making movie, which starred a white leading actress. Denise,
pleased with the plot and the flow of the movie, had scoffed at the
choice in leading actress. Having seen the actress in such movies
as Beverly Hills Wives, The Stripper, and The Nights of Hollywood,
she felt that the woman’s acting ability was overrated.
Denise stuck a spoonful of heavily peppered baked macaroni and
cheese into her mouth. Her eyes glazed over in ecstasy as she
sucked the cheese off the macaroni before swallowing.
The black pepper smarted her throat. Coughing, she reached for her
glass of iced water with lemon before voicing her comments on the
movie.
"She’s an overpaid, collagen-injected, surgery enhanced, actress
wannabe. I felt that a sistah would’ve done a better job." Denise
dropped her fork on her plate and, wearing a defiant expression,
waited for Robert’s response.
He gave a condescending nod. "Denise, honey, come on." His full
lips curled downward in a sneer. "Face it. There are no qualified
Black actresses who could’ve filled the role."
"Wait, you’re telling me," she paused to ensure she had his
undivided attention, "that there are no qualified Black actresses in
Hollywood who could’ve played the part?" The fight was on. She
stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his
response.
Undaunted by the prospect of a very public fight, Robert hungrily bit
into his piece of fried chicken before replying. "If there was one, she
would’ve gotten the part, now wouldn’t she?" He gave Denise a
smug look.
It took the strength of God to keep her from jumping across the table
and slapping the shit out of him. He’s crazy! She inhaled sharply.
When did he relinquish his membership in the Spike Lee fan club?
She never realized how much he’d changed since the carrot
of becoming a vice president had been dangled in front of him. So
the transformation of a brother joining corporate America has begun.
"Think like the majority," must be their mantra. Denise shook her
head in contempt. Isn’t he aware of the furor about the lack
of Black nominees for the Oscars? Not to mention the high number of
Blacks who are not getting quality roles.
"Robert, there are many qualified Black actresses who could do the
job and probably do it better than the white woman they put in the
leading role. All I’m saying is they deserve a chance. They should be
judged on their acting abilities not by the color of their skin."
Robert ripped his teeth into his corn on the cob, which was slathered
with butter. "Don’t try giving me some fucked-up version of Martin
Luther King’s rhetoric. Maybe they’re not trying hard enough to get
the leading roles. They need to pull themselves up by their boot
straps."
"What!" Denise shrieked in shock. Her voice carried over the harsh
din of the restaurant. All conversation ceased, ears perked in
gleeful anticipation of a fight. She brazenly studied the man she
thought she was in love with. Butter dribbled from the corners of
his mouth and a kernel of corn sat lodged in the middle of his two
front teeth. She shook her head at him in disappointment and
disgust. I’m about to marry a Clarence Thomas clone, she thought
incredulously.
Just thinking about last night pissed her off again. His ass gotta go!
As if reading her thoughts, Robert snorted in his sleep. With
renewed anger and determination, she vigorously shook Robert
awake. Her mulberry- colored silk robe shimmered with her rapid
movements.
"Wake up! I’ve got to talk to you."
He opened one bleary eye, pulled Denise against his face, and
showered her with wet, sloppy kisses that left spittle on her face.
"Stop!" She shoved him away and stilled his movements with a glare.
"We’ve got to talk."
Still not awake, he groggily sat up and sighed. "What about?" he
asked impatiently.
Denise skirted over to the dresser, changed her mind and retraced
her steps back to Robert, who was slowly emerging from his cocoon
of sleep.
"Robert," she started, pacing back and forth across the bedroom.
She took a deep breath and started again, "I can’t do this." Confusion
washed across his sleepy, pecan-colored face. He wasn’t getting it. "I
can’t marry you."
His mouth gaped open and clamped shut without his uttering a
sound. Denise watched his repeated but futile attempts to speak with
a heavy heart mixed with a sliver of vindictiveness. Yeah, I got you
now.
"I’m sorry." Tentatively, she reached out her hand to quell his
trembling ones. She was stopped short by the depth of emotions that
swept across his face. She identified anger, hurt, and love. By the
look in his eyes, she knew that he was revisiting his proposal to her.
It was their one-year anniversary and he had surprised her with a
five-day vacation to Cancun, Mexico.
The days were spent sightseeing, and the nights enjoying the
nightlife that Cancun is famous for. It was on their last day of vacation
that Robert popped the question. They had spent the day relaxing
along the pool side of the all-inclusive resort, she in her string bikini
and he in his bikini briefs, bemoaning the fact that they had to return
to work next week. Surprising her, he got down on bended knee and
made her girlhood dream come true. She was going to be a bride!
Robert suddenly found his voice, pulling Denise back to the present.
"What!" He thrust his compact body off the bed and landed directly in
front of her. "What are you talking about? Baby, you love me."
Denise’s hazel eyes swept over her ring. "I thought I loved you, but
all I was in love with was the idea of marriage and the security you
offered me."
"What’s wrong with that?" he snorted. "I’ll take care of you, boo." His
voice lowered an octave, "Besides, I need you."
"For what?" she taunted. Her aeneous eyes flashed with disdain. "A
pretty escort, someone to fuck according to your schedule. I can’t do
this. I need a man who I can be myself with."
"Now you’re just being silly." He angrily flopped back onto the bed.
"Give me one example where I stifled Ms. Denise Daniels." He tilted
his head to the side and pinned her with a mocking smirk.
Denise cringed inwardly at his expression. Mirroring his stance she
fired back at him. "Case in point: remember, when I told you I wanted
to take a cruise with Janisha and Monique? You sulked for a whole
week. That’s how it is with you. You also..." her voice drifted off
into nothingness. Afraid to continue, she averted her eyes and
wrung her hands.
"Spit it out Denise!" Robert demanded.
She returned her gaze to the man she thought she was in love with.
"You scare me sometimes. When things don’t go your way, you turn
into a monster. And it’s like I’m a heartbeat away from being your
punching bag."
Stunned, Robert slumped over, looked up at her with tear-filled eyes,
and dropped his face in his hands. His muscled body heaved with
emotion. Calming himself, he faced Denise. "Baby, I’ll never hit you."
"I can’t explain it, it’s as if you’re close to the edge. One wrong word
or look might trigger a hit, and I can’t live tip-toeing around you."
"This ain’t right. Think about what you’re doing," he begged.
"I think you’re a nice guy, and I’ll never forget the time we’ve spent
together, but I know that we’ll both be happier with someone else."
He snickered. "Do you ladies have the same book that you get that
from? ‘You’re a nice guy,’ " he mimicked Denise.
She cut her eyes at him. "I don’t have time for this shit."
Anger flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with confusion.
"Did you find someone else?"
Laughter bubbled over her tongue and almost slipped through her
lips. Why do men always think that there’s someone else? Denise
shook her head no. "Trust me. There’s no one else." She pulled the
two-carat diamond ring off and held it out to him.
He glanced at the ring in her outstretched hand. "You keep it. I
bought it for you." Giving his ex-fiancee a tight-lipped smile, he
threw on his I’m-tough-I’m-a-black-man-and-I-can-handle-it mask and
strutted toward his bathroom. "I’ll call you to pick up my clothes," he
threw over his shoulder.
Her hazel eyes filled with tears, making Robert’s once intimidating
body a non-threatening blur. "Take care of yourself."
Later that evening, Denise lay in her bed reflecting on everything
that had happened between them. And on what she really wanted. I
want the type of relationship my parents have. Their relationship is one
built on love, trust, and mutual respect for each other. Not on
superficial shit. I look at their relationship as my blueprint for a healthy
relationship. It’s funny, I almost believed the hype that a woman must
have a man in her life or she isn’t shit. I can hear the whispers now:
"How come she can’t keep a man?" "Maybe she wasn’t rocking his
world," or "She likes other girls." And the winner of them all: "She
doesn’t know how to treat a black man."
But, what would really make me happy? She pondered the question
for a moment. I know that I would want someone who’ll make me laugh,
someone who’ll challenge me mentally, and nourish me spiritually.
Someone who’ll give it to me so good in bed that I’ll still have
aftershocks from my orgasm two days later. According to Janisha and
the rest of the women I know, black and white, the dating scene is
whacked. Nowadays, dating is about as detestable as a self-administered
enema. The constant game playing, the lies, and the heartache. Denise’
s body shivered involuntarily. I really feel that if someone is meant to
be in my life, the Lord will bring him to me when it’s time.
Chuckling deeply, Denise looked up at her bedroom ceiling. "Lord, I
know that you’ll send the right man to me when I’m ready for him. But
please," she rolled her eyes, "don’t send me a..." Catching herself,
Denise clamped her mouth shut, she was about to say something
ugly and unnecessary. She reverently returned her gaze to the
ceiling. "God, just send me a good man."
against the balcony wall. Her nipples, hardened by the crisp morning
air, tingled as the cool air sensuously glided over her breasts. She
raised her anguished face to the new day. Thick fringed hazel eyes
filled with distress, pain, and regret silently pleaded with God for
strength. Her slim, honeyhued hand ran through sleep-mussed hair.
"I can’t go through with this." With troubled eyes, Denise peeked
through the French balcony doors at her sleeping fiancé, Robert
Jackson. He lay in his king-size, black-satin-sheeted brass bed with a
muscled arm thrown across his face. She watched disgustedly as a
gob of spit trickled from the corner of his gaping mouth, trailed
down his chin, and formed a miniature pond on his prized satin
sheets. Discomfited, Denise fidgeted with her two-carat diamond
engagement ring, not relishing what the new day would bring. She
shook her head sadly to herself.
"I don’t love him enough to make a lifetime commitment. It won’t be
fair to either of us to go through with this." Denise worried her full
bottom lip. "But a number of women would kill to be in my shoes."
Robert was a black man in corporate America, with a fabulous job,
making big bucks, driving a good car, and with connections in Atlanta’
s black elite. He was on the fast track at an international software
development company, where he was being groomed for
a vice president’s position. Denise’s lips curled in contempt at her
motives for wanting to get married. By marrying Robert, she was
guaranteed a slice of the American apple pie. Not just a slice, but the
whole damn pie, with two scoops of ice cream on top. She could
live the "American dream" that every woman desires. A house in the
suburbs with the two kids. Two cars parked in the driveway, one of
them preferably, a sport utility vehicle. Not!
Denise ran her index finger along the balcony’s wooden rail,
recalling the day she’d met Robert. A vision of her knight in shining
armor--more accurately, her African King in a BMW--coming to her
rescue overshadowed her tumbling thoughts. That morning didn’t
get off to a good start. She’d spent thirty minutes scouring her closet
for her sexy, but I-can-hang-with-the-best-of-them-in-corporate-
America, conservative blue Anne Klein suit before she realized that
she’d dropped it off at her dry cleaners two weeks ago.
She settled instead on a black two-piece suit from an unknown
designer that simply stated, yes-I’m-here-in-corporate-America-
please-forgive-my-fashion-faux pas. That was also the morning she
ran out of her favorite shade of Fashion Fair lipstick and
mascara. Make-up-less and pissed off, Denise hurried out of her
townhouse to make her interview on time.
She remembered easing into the traffic on Interstate 75, and heaving
a sigh of relief. The morning rush hour traffic flowed smoothly, with
none of the horrific pileups that Atlanta is famous for. She was back
on track, everything was going to be fine.
Until the unthinkable happened. The most heart-stopping, fingernail-
biting, steering-wheel-clutching incident she’d ever experienced.
Her tire blew out, right in the middle of morning rush hour traffic. Her
car spun crazily out of control, narrowly missing several speeding
vehicles. Fortunately, it spun onto the shoulder of the expressway
and out of the dangerous flow of traffic.
Robert, her savior, was watching Denise’s harrowing experience
from the safety of his car. She stood stock-still, heart pumping wildly,
as a human pit bull slid out of his silver BMW and headed in her
direction. Robert’s soft, black, tailored suit hugged his massive
shoulders. A Hermes shirt and matching tie enhanced his bulging
muscles.
Five-ten, pecan-colored, built like a professional weight lifter, and
with a huge shaved head, Robert presented an intimidating
presence. He offered Denise the use of his cell phone to call Triple A
for assistance and to call her interviewer to let him know that she
was going to be late. He stayed with her to ensure that the
mechanics fixed her tire properly.
While they waited for the mechanics, Denise took the opportunity to
get to know the fierce-looking brother. She discovered that Robert,
the oldest male of a brood of four siblings, possessed all the
characteristics of the oldest child according to the birth order theory.
A classic over achiever with a Type A personality, he had gone to
Harvard for his undergrad studies in business. Then, not
wanting to miss out on experiencing a historically black school, he
got his MBA from Howard. Denise learned that he was an avid patron
of the arts, lover of foreign films and he golfed. She remembered
thinking she had finally found a brother who shared her
taste for the finer things in life. From there started a two-year
whirlwind relationship.
Denise and Robert took the term BUMP, Black Upwardly Mobile
Professionals, and turned it into a religion "BUMPism." They didn’t
dine at a restaurant without consulting the local food critic’s daily
newspaper column. Clothes that didn’t sport a designer label
didn’t rate a glance. Vacations were expensive and frequent. Trips to
Hawaii, Martha’s Vineyard, and the Bahamas were common
occurrences. Neither batted an eye when the
travel agent quoted the price for their three-week European
honeymoon.
Trembling from the brisk morning air, Denise wrapped her
honeyhued arms around her sleek body for warmth. Still reluctant to
return to the bedroom, she continued her musings. It was after they
got engaged, that she began to realize that their relationship
was not as perfect as she had thought. During that time, she
discovered that she was losing a part of herself. If she expressed an
opinion that Robert didn’t like, he would accuse her of not loving
him. His idea of love was a couple thinking as a single unit,
with one brain, his. I don’t think so!
And the sex was dismal, it was so fucking predictable! Robert wanted
it on the same days, at the same time, and in the same position. He
was clueless on how to satisfy a black woman. Her personal mission
was to energize their lackluster sex life. She eagerly took it on as
her "project." To give Robert some new ideas, she bought a better
sex video that was advertised in the back of a woman’s magazine
that she frequently read. He watched it once and promptly
deemed the actors stilted and wooden. She reminded him that they
were not Sieskel & Ebert.
They were looking for new ways to spark up their sex life, not rate a
wannabe Oscar-winning feature film. To the best of her knowledge,
the video was on some shelf right now collecting dust. She had taken
an even bolder approach by guiding his hand during lovemaking,
but to no avail. Robert would appease her and acquiesce to her
wishes for a couple of weeks, but after that, it was back to his same
old tired sex routine. When she found out that he did not want to
change his sexual technique (according to him, the problem was all
her fault), she learned to satisfy herself. After they had Robert’s
version of sex, she would sneak into the bathroom and masturbate
herself to fulfillment.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Denise silently watched a flock of
birds soaring together in the sky, dipping and gliding lightly through
the azure blue without a care in the world.
Free. Determined to handle her business, she squared her
shoulders, braced herself for the inevitable, and returned to the
semi-dark bedroom. Shivering, she bent down to retrieve her
silk robe that Robert had ripped off her in one of his rare moments of
passion.
Securely tying the belt around her svelte body, she studied Robert’s
sleeping form. He’s not that bad, she rationalized. While she felt
around the carpeted floor in the muted darkness with chilled feet for
her slippers, a vivid picture of last night’s you-done-stepped-on-my-
last-nerve incident popped in her head.
She and Robert were having dinner at Lorna’s, one of Atlanta’s
premier soul food restaurants, having returned from the movies after
watching a number-one-breaking-all-the-records-crazy-money-
making movie, which starred a white leading actress. Denise,
pleased with the plot and the flow of the movie, had scoffed at the
choice in leading actress. Having seen the actress in such movies
as Beverly Hills Wives, The Stripper, and The Nights of Hollywood,
she felt that the woman’s acting ability was overrated.
Denise stuck a spoonful of heavily peppered baked macaroni and
cheese into her mouth. Her eyes glazed over in ecstasy as she
sucked the cheese off the macaroni before swallowing.
The black pepper smarted her throat. Coughing, she reached for her
glass of iced water with lemon before voicing her comments on the
movie.
"She’s an overpaid, collagen-injected, surgery enhanced, actress
wannabe. I felt that a sistah would’ve done a better job." Denise
dropped her fork on her plate and, wearing a defiant expression,
waited for Robert’s response.
He gave a condescending nod. "Denise, honey, come on." His full
lips curled downward in a sneer. "Face it. There are no qualified
Black actresses who could’ve filled the role."
"Wait, you’re telling me," she paused to ensure she had his
undivided attention, "that there are no qualified Black actresses in
Hollywood who could’ve played the part?" The fight was on. She
stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his
response.
Undaunted by the prospect of a very public fight, Robert hungrily bit
into his piece of fried chicken before replying. "If there was one, she
would’ve gotten the part, now wouldn’t she?" He gave Denise a
smug look.
It took the strength of God to keep her from jumping across the table
and slapping the shit out of him. He’s crazy! She inhaled sharply.
When did he relinquish his membership in the Spike Lee fan club?
She never realized how much he’d changed since the carrot
of becoming a vice president had been dangled in front of him. So
the transformation of a brother joining corporate America has begun.
"Think like the majority," must be their mantra. Denise shook her
head in contempt. Isn’t he aware of the furor about the lack
of Black nominees for the Oscars? Not to mention the high number of
Blacks who are not getting quality roles.
"Robert, there are many qualified Black actresses who could do the
job and probably do it better than the white woman they put in the
leading role. All I’m saying is they deserve a chance. They should be
judged on their acting abilities not by the color of their skin."
Robert ripped his teeth into his corn on the cob, which was slathered
with butter. "Don’t try giving me some fucked-up version of Martin
Luther King’s rhetoric. Maybe they’re not trying hard enough to get
the leading roles. They need to pull themselves up by their boot
straps."
"What!" Denise shrieked in shock. Her voice carried over the harsh
din of the restaurant. All conversation ceased, ears perked in
gleeful anticipation of a fight. She brazenly studied the man she
thought she was in love with. Butter dribbled from the corners of
his mouth and a kernel of corn sat lodged in the middle of his two
front teeth. She shook her head at him in disappointment and
disgust. I’m about to marry a Clarence Thomas clone, she thought
incredulously.
Just thinking about last night pissed her off again. His ass gotta go!
As if reading her thoughts, Robert snorted in his sleep. With
renewed anger and determination, she vigorously shook Robert
awake. Her mulberry- colored silk robe shimmered with her rapid
movements.
"Wake up! I’ve got to talk to you."
He opened one bleary eye, pulled Denise against his face, and
showered her with wet, sloppy kisses that left spittle on her face.
"Stop!" She shoved him away and stilled his movements with a glare.
"We’ve got to talk."
Still not awake, he groggily sat up and sighed. "What about?" he
asked impatiently.
Denise skirted over to the dresser, changed her mind and retraced
her steps back to Robert, who was slowly emerging from his cocoon
of sleep.
"Robert," she started, pacing back and forth across the bedroom.
She took a deep breath and started again, "I can’t do this." Confusion
washed across his sleepy, pecan-colored face. He wasn’t getting it. "I
can’t marry you."
His mouth gaped open and clamped shut without his uttering a
sound. Denise watched his repeated but futile attempts to speak with
a heavy heart mixed with a sliver of vindictiveness. Yeah, I got you
now.
"I’m sorry." Tentatively, she reached out her hand to quell his
trembling ones. She was stopped short by the depth of emotions that
swept across his face. She identified anger, hurt, and love. By the
look in his eyes, she knew that he was revisiting his proposal to her.
It was their one-year anniversary and he had surprised her with a
five-day vacation to Cancun, Mexico.
The days were spent sightseeing, and the nights enjoying the
nightlife that Cancun is famous for. It was on their last day of vacation
that Robert popped the question. They had spent the day relaxing
along the pool side of the all-inclusive resort, she in her string bikini
and he in his bikini briefs, bemoaning the fact that they had to return
to work next week. Surprising her, he got down on bended knee and
made her girlhood dream come true. She was going to be a bride!
Robert suddenly found his voice, pulling Denise back to the present.
"What!" He thrust his compact body off the bed and landed directly in
front of her. "What are you talking about? Baby, you love me."
Denise’s hazel eyes swept over her ring. "I thought I loved you, but
all I was in love with was the idea of marriage and the security you
offered me."
"What’s wrong with that?" he snorted. "I’ll take care of you, boo." His
voice lowered an octave, "Besides, I need you."
"For what?" she taunted. Her aeneous eyes flashed with disdain. "A
pretty escort, someone to fuck according to your schedule. I can’t do
this. I need a man who I can be myself with."
"Now you’re just being silly." He angrily flopped back onto the bed.
"Give me one example where I stifled Ms. Denise Daniels." He tilted
his head to the side and pinned her with a mocking smirk.
Denise cringed inwardly at his expression. Mirroring his stance she
fired back at him. "Case in point: remember, when I told you I wanted
to take a cruise with Janisha and Monique? You sulked for a whole
week. That’s how it is with you. You also..." her voice drifted off
into nothingness. Afraid to continue, she averted her eyes and
wrung her hands.
"Spit it out Denise!" Robert demanded.
She returned her gaze to the man she thought she was in love with.
"You scare me sometimes. When things don’t go your way, you turn
into a monster. And it’s like I’m a heartbeat away from being your
punching bag."
Stunned, Robert slumped over, looked up at her with tear-filled eyes,
and dropped his face in his hands. His muscled body heaved with
emotion. Calming himself, he faced Denise. "Baby, I’ll never hit you."
"I can’t explain it, it’s as if you’re close to the edge. One wrong word
or look might trigger a hit, and I can’t live tip-toeing around you."
"This ain’t right. Think about what you’re doing," he begged.
"I think you’re a nice guy, and I’ll never forget the time we’ve spent
together, but I know that we’ll both be happier with someone else."
He snickered. "Do you ladies have the same book that you get that
from? ‘You’re a nice guy,’ " he mimicked Denise.
She cut her eyes at him. "I don’t have time for this shit."
Anger flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with confusion.
"Did you find someone else?"
Laughter bubbled over her tongue and almost slipped through her
lips. Why do men always think that there’s someone else? Denise
shook her head no. "Trust me. There’s no one else." She pulled the
two-carat diamond ring off and held it out to him.
He glanced at the ring in her outstretched hand. "You keep it. I
bought it for you." Giving his ex-fiancee a tight-lipped smile, he
threw on his I’m-tough-I’m-a-black-man-and-I-can-handle-it mask and
strutted toward his bathroom. "I’ll call you to pick up my clothes," he
threw over his shoulder.
Her hazel eyes filled with tears, making Robert’s once intimidating
body a non-threatening blur. "Take care of yourself."
Later that evening, Denise lay in her bed reflecting on everything
that had happened between them. And on what she really wanted. I
want the type of relationship my parents have. Their relationship is one
built on love, trust, and mutual respect for each other. Not on
superficial shit. I look at their relationship as my blueprint for a healthy
relationship. It’s funny, I almost believed the hype that a woman must
have a man in her life or she isn’t shit. I can hear the whispers now:
"How come she can’t keep a man?" "Maybe she wasn’t rocking his
world," or "She likes other girls." And the winner of them all: "She
doesn’t know how to treat a black man."
But, what would really make me happy? She pondered the question
for a moment. I know that I would want someone who’ll make me laugh,
someone who’ll challenge me mentally, and nourish me spiritually.
Someone who’ll give it to me so good in bed that I’ll still have
aftershocks from my orgasm two days later. According to Janisha and
the rest of the women I know, black and white, the dating scene is
whacked. Nowadays, dating is about as detestable as a self-administered
enema. The constant game playing, the lies, and the heartache. Denise’
s body shivered involuntarily. I really feel that if someone is meant to
be in my life, the Lord will bring him to me when it’s time.
Chuckling deeply, Denise looked up at her bedroom ceiling. "Lord, I
know that you’ll send the right man to me when I’m ready for him. But
please," she rolled her eyes, "don’t send me a..." Catching herself,
Denise clamped her mouth shut, she was about to say something
ugly and unnecessary. She reverently returned her gaze to the
ceiling. "God, just send me a good man."
| BourgeoisBlues |
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