Another Woman

Noni

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The setting was an opulent lower east side night spot and the crowd was decidedly Black and upscale. It had been years since I'd mingled with this crop. Probably close to four. The promoters had changed but the feeling was the same. The line of scantily clad women teetering in skyscraper heels, donning their best runway looks wrapped around the corner. Clumps of men hoped to make it it in before the club satisfied its unfair female to male ratio. It so felt like undergrad.

Geneva was still nursing her physical and emotional wounds and wasn't feeling festive. Caroline was playing a game of cat and mouse with Lance. And Carter, of course, was away. This time in Philadelphia doing God knows what. Lord knows I have stopped asking.

So it was Caroline and I, shivering in the 11 PM breeze off the Hudson, both of us clad in mini dresses. Mine was tough-- Black, long-sleeved and skin tight with peek-a-boo shoulders. It was like a sartorial tribute to the Funky Divas of the nineties, En Vogue, and the man behind me was never gonna get it, even though he would try. I kept catching him in my periferal, his eyes greedily sizing me up. He looked smart. He wore a nice blazer and coral button up. He looked like a man that scored just over 50 percent of the time. I could tell by his reticence to say hello, he figured, no he knew, the woman in front of him was out of his league. So I helped a brother out.

"Hi," I said looking over my shoulder with a coy smile.

"Well hello. How are you tonight."

" Doing well. And you?"

"Great. I hope I’m not being too forward but you're killing that dress."

Some near by men were spying our conversation, probably trying to figure out how he did it. I didn't want his number or anything, just his attention. I had spent half year underneath my phantom lover and I wanted to feel like a single femme fatale again, even if only for one night. Besides, the last time I did this scene, I was college student hanging out with my grown friends. A petite girl, with a big butt and smile who sometimes flew under the radar. I hate to say it, but I love the fact that now, it's all eyes on me. Wait, I don't actually hate to say it. Caroline looked at me like I was crazy but she knew what was up . Clearly we'd both be on hot ass mess patrol all night.

The fellow from the line tried to buy me a drink once we finally shelled out our ATM-crisp twenties and strutted in. I told him I was good and promptly lost him. Once inside, I spied an orgy of brown all partially revealed in shadows and flashes of light. The bass mixed with my blood. My veins were dilating to the beat and what can I say-- the spirit took hold of me. Glo-Ray! I took Caroline's hand an headed to the center of the dance floor just in time for Beyonce's club classic, 'Get Me Bodied'. And as I turned, squirmed, and performed my spirited rendition of the Black girl's two-step, I could feel the chemistry between me and the surrounding fellows scorch. Soon Caroline and I were lost in the crowd, working it out song after song. Damn I'd been couped up in the house too long. I didn't even recognize most of the music the DJ spun-- a sister has got to get out more-- with people my own age.

That's when I saw him. When I noticed the familiar silhouette I had trouble keeping the rhythm. I was distracted. He was tall, fair skinned, and his head was shaped like an almond. That was all the clues I needed. I recognized that silhouette anywhere. Even in the dizzying strobe. It was the silhouette that made my heart skip a beat when I first laid eyes on him at an Af-Am House Party sophomore year. I didn't know much about him then, just that he was also Muslim, a med student and supposedly a real conscious brother. The picture of Malcolm X hanging on his dormitory wall right next to the incscription of 'al-Fatiha', a surah from the Koran, confirmed the hearsay. But it took about a year before I was inside of his dorm, inside his world. Between that time we made eyes, then formed a coy friendship, one tinged with thick sexual tension that I, like mad, wanted to break. He had a reputation. He slayed women. Took them down like Mayweather bodied opponents. But that I didn't care. Shame on me. I'd be the victim, so long as it gave me the chance to get close to him.

In spite of his rep, he played himself off as the perfect gentleman. By the summer before my junior year, I began to think that if I played my cards right, I could bring him home as a souvenir. Wasn't trying to be MRS. in undergrad, but at that point in my life he fit the mold. The superficial mold.

Anyway, dreams were crushed when I didn't oblige to his advances on the night we snuck out of a party together. In spite of endless temptation, and prodding with his fingers and tongue-- I couldn't let him enter me. I wasn't bout it enough-- I guess, and he moved on. After a few months of sleepless nights, and hunger pain, I was too depressed to eat, I finally began to see him for who he really was. A man, a nice man who craved the spotlight, and blessed the countless women who gave it to him with his jism. A man who refused to see a woman's worth because he couldn't see his own. Hell, a man.

He's a surgeon now.

He was walking toward me, his eyes focused on mine, a broad smile emerging. His gait far more assured than I remember. "Wow! Long time. Long time."

I made my way through a throng of people to enter his outstretched hands. I gave him a church hug. Didn't want to feel anything. And thankfully, I didn't.

His eyes went roving, forehead to toes. "How've you been?"

"Great. I'm a surgeon at Mt. Sinai," he said proudly.

"Wonderful. I'm happy everything worked out for you. And how's your brother."

"He's alright." I could tell that he probably wanted to keep the attention on himself. "What are you up to?"

I know he knew. "I write books."

"You look great." He said, leaning in close. That's when I caught Caroline just over his shoulder, rolling her eyes at us, and not missing a beat with her dance partner. Too bad. The worst part about back on the scene was running into those people you didn't miss. A pretty pair of legs walked by and his eyes followed.

"Thanks love. It's cool seeing you Ahmad. You take care of yourself."

"You too." He gave me one last charming smile, maybe hoping to make an indelible imprint on my mental map. 

Too bad. The space was already occupied.

I bought Caroline and I drinks. Yes, I could have had a man buy them, but I didn't want to owe anyone attention. We took a moment to rest from our dancing, and look around the club. I was so happy to be removed from the NYC single scene. Being a Black single female in New York can feel like being dehydrated, on a boat, surrounded by salt water. So many men, yet it feels like there's not enough to go around. Once you eliminate the gay ones, and the ones that don't date sistas, and the ones who are out of your league, and the ones your girls have dated, and the ones who are whack--- you're left with a few brothas who know you want the hell out of them. So they stand there, unmoved, by every fly sista walking by. They don't bother with game. They don't bother with courting. Why should they? They know that we need them to fulfill our fantasies of what it is to be Black, female and successful. That is to complete the trifecta-- Fly degree. Fly job. Fly man. In that order.

"Wait, I'm actually over it." Caroline said, practically reading my thoughts. "What is going on? All these men just standing around against the walls, just waiting to be approached. Why can't men be men? Damn!"

"I don't know," I shrugged. " Maybe because women have stopped demanding it. I tell you, it only takes a group of thirsty women to ruin it for everyone."

"You think so."

"Of course. That's why we all have to get our thatch snatched. A few women thought it'd be cute to go bare and now men go down there, see hair, and panic."

"Noni, too bad."

" I'm just happy to be out of the pack girl."

"I would be too. You know this is not my scene. I can't stand cocky men."

"You don't act like it."

"What?"

"You could be up under Lance right now if you weren't being such a mess."

"Actually Lance is a mess, more than you know."

"Why?"

"He's wonderful and all but first of all the man doesn't believe in marriage. Strike one."

"Make him believe."

"Noni, I actually can't with you."

"And what's strike two?"

"He's selfish."

"And you love him, and I'm sure being with him is better than competing for attention here."

"I mean, I can't."

Drinks were finished, and we lingered at the bar. Actually Caroline had a second. Men approached us. Caroline and I had both studied, thorougly, The Art of Seduction, and we could be femme fatales when we wanted to. We returned to the dance floor and partied some more till just after 2.

It was closer to three when I stumbled home. My feet were killing me. I'm not convinced that Louboutins, as fly as they are, aren't intended to be instruments of S&M. I was planning on throwing my dress on the floor and collapsing onto my big, flufly bed, which I would have all to myself.

Change of plans.

"Carter!"

His eyes jump when I appeared before him in the freakum dress. Shit.

"I've been calling you." I pulled my phone out of my purse and saw 5 missed calls. Damn. I had it on silent. Besides, I never would have heard it in the club.

"Caroline and I went to a party. I thought you were in Philadelphia."

Just then I heard footsteps. Another woman's heels on my mahogany floor.

"Hi Noni."

It felt like I was swallowing a rock. "Tamika! Hey!" I started to ask what she was doing here and why the hell Carter was not in Philadelpha. Carter was still making sense of the sexiness that was not meant for him. His eyes were taking me in, leaving question marks on every contour of my body.

"We thought we were going to have to call the police. We were worried." No this bitch wasn't instigating. 

"Well, Carter, you were out of town so Caroline and I just went out for a bit."I tugged down my dress and took a seat.

"Yes. That's what I told Carter" she said, crossing her shiny legs. " I told him you were probably out partying since he wasn't around." Not slick.

"So did you have fun?" He asked, eyes still cold. He looked like he was angry, but didn't want to show it in front of his friend. He looked like he'd lost a bet.

"Yea, sweety, I did. It's been a while since I went dancing." I laughed. "And what are you both doing here?"

"I got in early. Tamika was in the City."

I hated that she was in my house. I hated her energy. I could feel the venom of words stated in my absence. She had a satisfied grin on her face. Carter looked furious. And damn it, I just went out to have fun.

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed baby. Sorry I didn't hear my phone." I kissed him, tenderly, on his lips.

"It's cool."

"Tamika, nice to see you again."

"You too girl. Glad you're alright."

Bitch.

The Vineyard

Noni

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I was at the head of the table, facing two rows of four black couples. This was a random sampling of North Jerseys mocha creme de la creme and I'd known them all since childhood; a celebrity cosmetic surgeon, a retired banker, an international business man, mom and dad. We were at Deons, a black owned restaurant on Circuit and we were waiting forever for the main course. Too bad. A dressed down Jasmine Guy had just walked by with a small group, took a look at the packed house and decided to dine elsewhere. I got a little star struck at the sight Whitley Gilbert, my childhood idol. Too bad again. Vernon Jordan's daughter was beside us, with a party of like ten. 

They were all looking back at me, intrigued about my new life. Now that I'd given up my television career to write, what did I do all day? I know. The answer is obvious, but not to some.

"So are you headed to law school now?" Aunt Natalie, mom's best friend, was cross examining me. She was seated to my immediate left sounding more like a prosecutor than the surgeon she was.

"I hadn't thought about it."

"You should. Columbia's right down the street. You need to have a back up plan. I see you like nice things." She was hinting at the Chopard on my wrist, which was a gift from Carter but that didn't mean I couldn't spoil myself. People have it twisted. Not all writers are starving artists. I mean some of us know how to write magnificently, and a few of us know how write what a lot of people want to read. I put myself in the latter group and I eat well.

Nonetheless, my sudden career shift and fly by night romance has taken aunt Nat by suprise. I was "Noni-she went to Yale". She always introduced me as if 'she-went-to-Yale' was an unusually long hyphenated last name. By her standards I was supposed to complete the trifecta; get an ivy-league JD, marry some corporate man named Darius or Joshua, and then move into a fabulous suburban house.

But dating an older, divorced jazz musician with locks? This was so la vie boheme.

"So your mother tells me he's married."

"He was married. He's divorced."

"Divorced, but he has kids?"

"He has a daughter." I needed a second round of drinks. And where the hell was the food? People don't ask as so many questions when their mouths are busy chewing. I was giving our waiters the serious side-eye.

"How old is she?"

"Eight."

" Okay so he still practically has another family."

"Damn Nat," my dad shot back. "I like your style! You don't even try to sugar coat it." Laughter percolated but I didn’t find her round of questioning funny.

"I mean I'm saying! I know she's in love but a woman has to think about the future." She turned to me. "I know he makes money but what happens five years down the line when you figure he's just been having a good time? I mean do you really think this man is going to get married again and is he even someone you should be marrying?"

"Noni, you're thinking about marriage?!" a young-spirited Lynn chimed in.

"Umm..." I stumbled. I mean, I wasn't, but I was. And how could I say that I wasn't in front of my parents when according to mom, I'm living in sin. "Not any time soon."

"Well... we're proud of Noni," mom said, always the diplomate, "But we still have to get used to fact that she's living with him." She said, raising her hands as if in defeat.

"Where is his place?" Aunt Natalie asked.

"Morningside Heights, the Palisades."

"Oh, okay, so he's balling." I had to laugh at her attempt at hipness. "But Noni, I don't want to see you heartbroken. You have too much going for you to invest time in a dead end relationship. And Noni, if he's fifteen years older than you, do you really want to be taking care of your husband at 50?"

"I'll sleep with one eye open, Aunt Nat. I promise."

Already, on my first night back on the island, I'd been whisked back into the world where waist size, wallet size, and pedigree were magnified in importance. And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't drank a little of the kool-aid too. In this world, it wasn't just about money. Aunt Natalie had married into a Black elite family and her in-laws couldn't stand her. But the fact they never came over for the Holidays was pretty irrelevant to her. What mattered was that she had a last name that meant something (to a select group of people) and a daughter with 'good'  hair, being looked after Portuguese nanny.

 Before the topic of conversation had transitioned to me, we were discussing a Long Island family that came up for the summer. The husband is an orthopeadic surgeon and the wife stays at home. Their daughter graduated from a prestigious boarding school this year and didn't get in to any Ivy-League Schools. Therefore, rather than send her to Georgetown (which her mother says is beneath her), they opted to keep her out of college for a year, have her do some more community service, and apply again. What?! Everyone at the table thought this extreme display of pretentiousness, was just that, a hot pretentious ass mess, except Aunt Natalie. But like I said, in this world, it isn't about money. Money can't buy your way into the Ivy Leage. It's about elitism. It is the difference between the Atlanta Housewives and The Links. Laker Wives and Spel-House love.

And for the folks I know and love, elitism isn't a flaw. It's just force of habit.

I managed to escape dinner unscathed, but that food sho' nuff took forever to come.

We head to a get-together after dinner at the Davis'. Their summer house was in a wooded section of Oak Bluffs. The husband is retired now, but he was VP of a fortune five hundred company in his day. A real corporate titan. I'm sitting in their front room, studying family portraits and nursing a "Michelle Obama-tini" when I realize their son was home. Langston Davis the third. My, my, my. This man has the distinguished air of a man bought up to think himself important and swag of a movie star. He entered the room wearing a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and loafers. His goatee was crisp, and his peanut skin was bronzed with the glaze of the sun. He had a little more girth than I remembered. I could tell that his hair line was receding a bit too, but he was still fine. He looked like money and he smelled like Ralph Lauren.

He caught me staring, but he'd been staring first. I placed my martini on the coaster beside me and stood up.

"Noni!"

"Hey Langston. Nice to see you."

"You look good girl." My, his praise felt good. My ringlets had become lightly tossled in the salt-air. I was sporting a strapless pink Lili Pullitzer and matching Jack Rodgers sandals.  When I was skinny teen I dreamed of this man. He was the guy that girls like me were groomed to snag. But back in the day, I wasn't his type. He always had a girlfriend, and despite the fact that his mother was bleautiful cocoa brown, they were always slender and the color of butter. I'd assumed these things about him, but from the way he was sizing me up, maybe I ‘d been wrong.

"So what you been up to? I know you have a book out."

"How'd you know-- oh Facebook." I smiled. "Yes, actually knee deep in the second one. I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

"I know, I don't come up here like I used to, and when I do I pretty much just chill here."

" I stay pretty  low-key , myself. It's not like when we were teens."

"So you live in the city?"

"Uh huh."

"Why haven't you visited me? Me and my frat bros throw parties all the time."

"You gotta send me a line next time you do. You still at JP?"

"No, I left at the begginning of the year. Started a hedge fund."

I nearly lost my balance. "Wow! That's amazing! Congratulations." I knew automatically his daddy had provided the start up money, but it was clear Langston would grace the cover of Black Enterprise in the next five years.

"Thank you. So what are you getting into tomorrow? I'm around for one more day."

I should have told him that I was picking my boyfriend up from the airport and spending the day with him and my folks, but I decided not to disclose that bit of info. I'd been taught well. I knew not to burn bridges before I jumped the broom. We exchanged numbers. Of course I didn't answer when he called the next day, but I do plan to keep that option open. Too bad for my life.

I still had Langston on my mind the next morning when I woke up. His preppy affection had gotten under my skin. It was a different kind of lust. Not the lust that makes your nipples hard, but the kind that sedates you with images of Michelle and Barack. Aren't all of us BAP's trying to find our Barack?

I got back in the right groove as soon as I picked up Carter.  He entered the car smelling of Russian leather and oudh. I got high. Nothing beats a fine chocolate man with locks dripping down his back. Nothing. We went back to the Pequot, a bed and breakfast about a block away from the Inkwell. We had plans to walk up the street and meet my parent and their friends at the Inkwell, but Carter was tired.  He'd just finished a two-night gig in Madrid. We showered together, I made love to him, and let him rest.

I don’t know why I ever doubted Carter. He’s a social chameleon. He’s bohemian at heart, deep into his art and his people, not really down for titles and name dropping, but he can hob-nob with the best of them. I love that about him.

We arrived at the Inkwell around four, just before the breeze picked up and the sand ants started biting. It was the same crew as dinner the first night plus two other couples I didn’t recognize. Everybody was sprawled on a make- shift  camp site of beach towels, umbrellas and chairs.  Someone had a stereo playing smooth jazz and there was a cooler with some mixed drinks. That’s how you do a beach day.

If anybody disliked Carter, they h id it well. Too well. As he made his rounds, shaking hands, repeating names,  they greeted him with porcelain smiles and spirited introductions. Wayne Shorter’s saxophone could be heard playing “Milky Way” . That got dad and Carter talking about Weather Report and engrossed in jazz dialogue. I could tell the women were all privately turned on by the site of his bare sculpted chest and sprawling locks. Carter was the type of man they denied themselves and I knew that at that moment they were craving his guilty pleasure.

After a while we broke free and waded in the water. At first we just got our feet wet, holding hands and kicking loose sea weed. I let Carter lead me further out, even though that New England water was  cold, it felt good against my skin. The water came to my chest when we stopped. We faced each other, holding hands, stealing the moment from everyone else on the beach.  His locks were wet, dazzling beads of water were rolling down his chest, over his dark nipples, down the dip of his back. His eyes put my soul in bondage. He slayed me. Made me forget abou t the world around me. He pulled me into him and kissed me, his lips tasting like spearmint and salt water. I closed my eyes and relaxed, the rhythm of the water lapping against my body matched that of his tongue. I knew we were being watched and whispers were being passed but I didn’t care.

My choices in love and career made me happy. I realized that I don’t want to live by the book. I want to write it.