Does Love Have an Expiration Date?

Geneva

So... Exactly why are you here?

Each time I watched Paul grab OJ from the fridge to drink from the carton or warm up some more leftovers, that question went off in my head. It wasn't tripping over his free-loading; laying around the house, eating up the food, being here when I closed my eyes at night, and at first morning blink. I wasn't tripping over that. My roomate's never around any way.

I was annoyed that Paul was suffocating me when I needed to have some privacy. I needed to sleep alone. To eat alone. To be left alone.

He finally left on Thursday. He fled into the Harlem night like swirls of dust after a good porch sweeping. Good-grief. It felt like fresh air returned to the house and I could breath again.

By the time he left, the gloom had passed. It always does, like a storm cloud that exhausted itself then cast the sky steely gray. But even in the damp quiet, I needed to figure out my life. Figure out how I'd so easily slipped into another dark episode. He wouldn't give me space to do that.

Honestly, I didn't ask for it. My ass is too polite. Instead, I let him crowd my space with his twisted energy and shards of chatter that occasionally erupted silence like the smattering of glass. Paul is the only man I know that can accomplish avoidance and suffocation in one. When he wasn't on campus, he was sitting on the living room couch, comforted by an open window, reading a book. Not talking to me, talking through this, trying to figure out if we could salvage what was left. No. There was no love happening. There was the only the turning of pages, fan blades cutting through air, and the occasional profanity shouted on the other side of the window.

Shame.

"Yo, I'm about to pick up something from the bookstore."

I had just walked home from work and I was changing into a cotton dress. Our AC was broken. If Paul wasn't there, I would have stripped naked, and curled up next to the fan. "Okay."

"You wanna come with me."

"Yea, that's cool."

We walked down into the 145th street subway platform and waited on the C. It was hot as hell. I could feel beads of sweat crowding my kitchen. He wrapped one arm around my waist and held my hand with the other. "You alright?"

"I'm good." Since when had I become so delicate? Since when had he grown so quiet. Where was the man that hosted Fight Night in undergrad, shouting at the TV screen like he was ringside. Where was the man that gave Black kids from New Haven tours of Yale? Where was he? Still it was a nice gesture and the only one I can recall from the week. Paul held my hand until we made it to the used and rare bookstore in Noni's neighborhood.

I had been feeling guilty that his being there wasn't the healing I needed. A month ago, the only thing I wanted was Paul to come around. To know where he was and to know he was thinking of me. I felt the guilt of a sinner when he finally tosses a prayer in the air it comes down unanswered. His presence wasn't my healing. Let him tell it, it was the healing, the salvation and the testimony.

I don't know why men think that their jism is the cure-all, like it can mend a broken-heart and fix a relationship. No. Cum is not super glue, it's just cum.

Every night, like clockwork, he'd come in from the shower, hit the lights. Take off his boxers. Force my legs open and pump me like with enough effort he could cum inside my mind . His body felt good to me. Better than I should admit. But something wasn't right.

This wasn't the same sex that made me fall asleep with a smile on my lips. This wasn't the sex that made me want to get up and make him breakfast, make him feel like a King at my kitchen table. I felt like he was feeding me left overs. Spoils that he'd either been sharing with someone else or had been left sitting for so long, they'd gotten stale.

I wanted his love when it was fresh. I wasn't satisfied with the day-old, caked up kisses he was feeding me. It wasn't filling it any more. I was hungry. Hungrier than I ever knew.

Somehow, I was fasting and it wasn't for my spirit.

What Paul and I have is past it's expiration date. It no longer smells the same. It no longer looks the same nor tastes the same.

But I'm not ready to throw it away.

-Geneva

Over It

Caroline

I tell you, this shit is getting old. Old and tired. I mean if I had a nickel for every time some Tom, Dick and Mr Charlie tried to steal my idea, I’d own half this company by now. I could retire before thirty and not have to put up with this shit.

It's been a long day. I'm trying to unwind. I’m on my third glass of wine this evening.

I knew that this time around wouldn't be the city of romance, the city that I, a self-proclaimed Afro-Dite, love to turn out. This time around Paris was work and a crazy hectic mess.

The company’s developing a new celebrity fragrance that we're passing off as being 'created' by a young actress that you all know.

Originally we wanted the scent to be bliss in a bottle, a chypre targeting single twenty somethings with dreams of big weddings and walking their bichon frises through Central Park in Manolos. You know, perfume is very cheap, you're paying for the bottle and the dream.

We thought we had it. The lab put together an amazing rose-peach-cedar scent. Something sophisticated yet sweet, with a brush of naughty. Something I'd even wear. I projected that this scent would have a broader appeal, maybe even reach into the older demographic. We had the ad campaign approved until a sample group of ‘average’ Joes and Janes sat around a dry room in New Jersey, sniffed a dozen viles, different variations on the scent, and checked 'no'.

Shit.

Emergency overhaul.

I mean, I find out I’m going to Paris on a Monday, and by Thursday my team (meaning I) need a brand new strategy. I worked my ass off. Grabbed maybe 5 hours of sleep (thanks to cup of jamal) over the course of 48 hours. Took an Ambien on the plane and slept the whole way there.

This time around we directed the perfumers to take out the nuance. No room for coquettry, just girlish. Obnoxiously sweet. Something for the woman with sling backs, lace bras, and tea cup dogs. Bergamot, lavender, cedar... a hint of apple martini. Nothing I'd ever where, but a guaranteed hit.

All this work so Mr. Smart Ass could present my idea before the board this afternoon as if they were his own. The day before the board meeting he tells me he's going to do the first part of the presentation-- the numbers. Then he'd leave the strategy, the magic, up to me. So when I heard my words leaving his lips-- I nearly choked.

Me and the other guy just stood there, like he was Gladys and we were The Pips. Needless to say, the board loved my game plan. He was congratulated personally by the company heiress for saving the day

And what was supposed to do, smile and be grateful they even let a colored girl in the room. No, maybe fly into a rage, confirming suspicions that I’m nothing more than an angry Black woman in Prada.

Hell if I know.

I’m listening to Shirley Bassey sing "Diamonds are Forever", feeling light headed, tipsy, like I might be sleep in the next half hour.

I'm so frustrated I could scream.

But who am I kidding? I want to get laid.

I miss Lance like crazy. It’s times like this I just wish he was here to hold me, You know those really long hugs that last a zillion minutes and leave you feeling like of all the places in the world you've traveled, the cove between those two arms is your favorite.

Besides a few text message and one short conversation, we haven’t talked much. Haven't had time to be sidetracked. But right now I need it. Need it badly . And I want him. Two more days.

Bisous,

Caroline

Baby, Engagements, and Sleeping Arrangements

Noni

My monthly visitor was late. First thing Sunday morning I rolled out of bed and used the bathroom. Nothing. Shoot. Ever since the condom mishap I’d been waiting with bated breath. Without a second thought I threw on running shorts and went to Rite Aid.

By the time I got back, panic had gotten the best of me. I was so shaken up when I called Carter, he thought someone had broken into our place. In between sobs I assured him I wasn’t being attacked, but this was a state of emergency no less. “I think I’m pregnant.”

And of course he was in LA. I put him on speaker while I peed on the stick. Then I waited for a second pink line. It was the longest 60 seconds of my life. If I was pregnant, would this be the beginning of the end, or the start of forever?

“Aminah?”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh okay… You alright though?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.” I lied. I was suddenly struck by a confusing blow of sadness.

Beat.

“Min’, you know if something like that happens I’m here for you right. I love you. You don’t have to panic. We can handle a baby.” His voice was assuring. Spoken, like a father.

“I know.” I took a deep breath through my nose and smiled. “I’m good now. I just don’t handle pressure well.”

“You’re kidding?” he teased.

He had to get back to his recording session. We exchanged brief “love you’s” and hung up. I sat on the toilet a few moments more, staring at the marble floors, confused as hell as to why I was sad. I wrapped in a silk robe went to the kitchen to make some tea. As I put the water on, I had to wonder what Carter was thinking at that very moment. He’d just caught glimpse of the little girl I work very hard to disguise. I’m the baby of my family. Some traits you just don’t out grow.

Too much to think about for a Saturday morning. I took my tea and a pint of toffuti to the couch, and resigned to spend the day there.

I was watching the Golden Girls when Damon called. My spirits lifted immediately.

“Damon!”

“Whats the tea?” Damon and I were the Black Will and Grace at Yale. He runs a charter school in Brooklyn.

“Damon, my life!” I cried.

“What’s going on?”

“Carter and I had a condom mishap about two weeks ago you know. One of those suckers broke free and got stuck.”

“Oh too bad.”

“And my period is late so I took a pregnancy test. Damon, I called up Carter crying like I was five years old and somebody had stole my bike.”

“Well hookah, are you pregnant?” he laughed.

“No! One line, not two… but I’m sitting here trying to figure out why I had to go and act a damn fool about it.”

“Well, were you scared about what Carter would say?”

“No, not really. He talked me down. I’m the high strung one. Shit doesn’t faze him.”

“So why were you upset then?”

“Well the issue, for one, is that I can barely look after myself.”

“Okay…Noni, maybe you should get a puppy.”

“I mean, really though?”

“It’ll help you get over your fear of responsibility.”

“But am I really walking a dog in the snow”

“Noni, too bad, but okay. We both know you wouldn’t. So you’re scared to be a mother. I feel like that’s every single girl? ”

“Depending, but especially when you’re not married…”

“So you don’t think he’d put a ring on it if you were expecting?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed, leaping off my couch. “Wait, I actually do not know.” And finally, there was the question and the answer, all in one. As usual, Damon was there to help me figure out my life.

Reality? Check.

The close call had forced me think about my future with Carter, which is a big old question mark, considering I know very little about his past. I have never met his ex-wife. Don’t know why they split. Never met his parents. Never met his daughter. I have no concept of this man’s romantic history except for the questionable statements made by the homegirl.

“Carter left his wife with an 8 year old kid and I don’t even know why.”

“ I mean, it’s 2009, people get divorced… even with kids. But it sounds like you’re having doubts about him anyways.”

“No.” If I was having doubts, I wasn’t ready to admit it, to Damon nor to myself. It was too soon for this expensive glass house to be cracked.

I told him about the homegirl.

“This heffa said what?”

“She said, ‘my ex-husband asked if Carter and I were fucking’.”

“What?”

“Yes! and I gagged!”

“You would want to watch her. She sounds like a mess. But in the mean time, I wouldn’t worry. I feel like you found the man you were looking for and for now, you need to just live your life.”

“Fabulously.” I added. I no longer felt like laying around the house. Damon invited me to a housewarming.

****

Derrick, our friend from school, had just bought a place in Chelsea with his long time lover. Truth be told, for a minute in undergrad, I had a crush on Derrick. He was fine as can be. Corporate bound. Made Yales infamous “50 Most Beautiful”… and then we found out he was gay.

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“Oh my God! Damon bought Noni!” Derrick announced as he opened the door of their exquisite two-bedroom condo. I thought it was a fitting introduction. Derrick and Leon were a handsome pair, the kind that could make a successful, single Black woman weep. Two educated, chocolate, fine black men that met all husband qualifications except one… must check heterosexual. So… too bad. They were fabulous friends though.

“First off all, you look amazing”. When in the presence of friends from college one must always be fabulous, such was the occasion for a Pucci dress and Giuseppe heels. “And you’re not leaving here without signing my copy of your book.”

“Derrick, you read my book?!”

“Ummm, yes. All of Black Yale has… and toooo bad!” He laughed heartily. I let the conversation end there. He knew as well as I that the best fiction comes straight from reality.

There apartment was packed, wall to wall, mostly with Buppies and gay professionals I didn’t know. Black Yale was in the house, especially Shades alumn, the acapella group that Derrick, Damon and Geneva sang in. It was chatty gatherings like this that I craved when I was in the South. For three years I’ve been out of the loop- but a legend in my absence.

“So have you heard the news?” I was nursing some strong mixed drink that was making me sleepy as hell when Derrick pulled Damon and I aside.

“What?”

“Oh wait this is good.” He was grinning madly.

“What?!”

“Aliyah is getting married! Like, as of last night 3 carats.” As he pulled up the picture of her sparkly thing on his I-phone, I felt the room get hot. Sudden, life-changing, revelations are horrible when you’re drunk.

When I was a freshman I wanted to be just like Aliyah. This woman had the pedigree of a DC debutante and the personality of a round the way girl. She was talented, drop dead gorgeous, an attorney, a sorority girl and apparently now engaged to a wealthy entrepreneur. I mean, she literally had it all. She was my role model.

The news of her engagement made me do that flash comparison that women sometimes do. I’m a published author and Carter is the ultimate catch. But to be honest, my man is fifteen years older than me, never at home, and divorced. He already did the wedding, had a wife, and a kid. He’s been there, done that. Has alimony to prove it. I realized that I might just be the next logical progression of any hot blooded man, with plenty of cash to spare.

The younger girlfriend.

Wait a minute.Am I this man’s mid-life crisis?

Somehow, amidst charge cards, co-ops and fancy events, I may have lost my mind. Not now, but someday I really do want the fabulous house in the burbs, and two, adorable, frizzy haired Jack & Jillers. But in that moment, I realized, that Carter, my soul mate, might not want the same thing.

 When I moved in with Carter, I said to myself, “Noni, follow your heart.” But by following my heart, I think lost my head.

Damon and I cabbed it home. I was lost in thought. Then I turned to him and said, “Damon, I think I rushed into this.” I said it more for me than him.

-Noni

Pleasure and Pain

Geneva

Pablo Picasso had his blue period. Geneva has her black periods. La vie noir. Crazy stretches of time when the world’s rotation slows and seconds inflate like beads of water. Everything is covered in soot. It feels like the sun doesn’t want to rise. Like even the sun doesn’t give a damn. It feels like slumber. It feels like sleep, sleep, sleep.

Caroline and Noni left town. I really didn’t want to go to work. Would rather have laid in the comfort of my small room, damp, unwashed skin against satin sheets, and have stirred in and out of sleep. I didn’t want to have to shower and dress and do my hair and face anyone.

Too bad I had to go anyway. I mean I basically did nothing. It was me and the director there all day. I read 15 pages of a script we are considering and clicked around on Facebook, .staring at faces I haven’t seen in person in years. She left early, around three. I waited fifteen minutes and went home too.

My roommate had made some sort of spaghetti concoction that I helped myself to. She wasn’t around and her dogs were barking. The windows were up, letting in a nice breeze, but the sound of kids cackling on the stoop below was driving me crazy. I shut the windows. I shut my bedroom door. Nodded off.

I was having this crazy dream, like I was in the theater of night by myself when some man break in. I couldn’t see his face, just a tall body, tan arms. No face. I froze, even though he was coming for me, my legs couldn’t find the strength to run. It was like my mind was ordering them to flee and my legs were paralyzed. He reached for my neck and tried to take me down. I was screaming, but I wasn’t actually making sound, like someone had yanked my voice. He started shaking me, violently- And his cell phone was ringing, loudly. It was in his pocket. It wouldn’t stop ringing, went far beyond the standard four rings. I wanted him to answer it so I could plan my escape. Give my legs a second chance. I felt like I only needed a few seconds.

The phone was ringing.

I woke up.

My cell phone was in the bottom of my purse. It stopped. One missed call. Paul.

I threw my body across the bed. He’d called twice before and I didn’t know what to do. At the point, I felt like Paul was the reason my life was fucked up. The reason I didn’t want to wake up, or go to the theater or to yoga or comb my hair for that matter. He was the dark cloud and the thunderbolt. He was the darkness.

I stared at the ceiling. My heart was racing, my breathing heavy.

I don’t know where the courage came from, but I found myself digging for the phone, as if I had something to say. I speed-dialed his number, and then hoped he didn’t answer.

“Geneva.”

“Hey, I missed your call.” I sat on my bed.

“Yeah, yeah…. I’m on campus,” he said. I heard a crowd of voices around him. He had to be outdoors. 

“Come meet me.”

“Paul, I’m taking a nap.”

“Then I’ll come over there.”

“No… I mean, what’s wrong? Why do you want to see me?” I didn’t want my space invaded. I was craving loneliness.

“I’m trying to see you. What’s good?”

I wanted to stand up to him, and treat him like he treated me. With silence. But I couldn’t. “I mean, I kind of don’t feel up to hanging out today.”

“Can I come over when I finish up here?”

Damn. “Okay, fine.”

I rolled over and half-way went back to sleep. I think I was scared I’d return to that night mare.

He came over hours later. The sun was setting behind the curtains. I still didn’t want to turn any lights on. The dogs weren’t barking any more, I realized as I went to the door. My roommate was home. She’d fed them.

“Hey beautiful! What’s going on?” He entered my world like a pin ball. Arms swinging, he was full of energy and full of life. We had swapped moods. I was low. He was elevated. Sometimes I wondered if his brain worked like mine and if our volatile mood swings was the tie that really bonded us.

“Hey.” He engulfed me with his hug, buried his nose in my hair, and kissed me.

He followed me to my room. The sun was sinking fast. It was charcoal gray pierced by the light of my computer screen.

“You straight?”

“I’m alright.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… nothing I want to talk about.”

He kicked off his shoes, and laid back. He pulled me down beside him. He turned to his side, kissed my ear lobe. His hand crept beneath my shirt. It felt natural.

“Let me know what’s on your mind.”

“I just, you know, sometimes don’t feel like myself.”

He covered my neck , cheek, and ear lobes with feather weight kisses. He paused. He was familiar with my dark periods. I think it was this side of me that turned him on. Made him feel powerful, and normal.

“What happened?”

It was the time to confront him about the woman who’d rang my phone, the old woman with an attitude. I should have told him then, that I had a gut feeling she was the same woman he’d been on the phone with that night. And then, without opening my mouth, I would tell him that I was terrified of being without him. He was my first love and his craziness was a part of my world now. But I didn’t tell him any of that. I just said,

“Nothing, going through a moment.” I couldn’t tell him my truth because I didn’t want to face his.

I let him be the hero.

I wondered if he knew about the phone call. He didn’t let on to it. Instead he acted like he was a roots doctor, with the cure to my ailment. Like his jism was the cure to my sickness.

He rolled on top of me, forced himself between my legs. I felt myself sinking into the mattress, the heat of his breath spread over my face. I felt him growing and at once, wanted to shove him off and egg him on. I didn’t want to be entered but I wanted him to be happy. He undressed me, suckled me, as if he was doing this to make me happy. As if his virility was penicillin.

He rolled off me and undressed. His sex faced me and I faced the root of my problems, the sex that enslaved me and made me crave him and the sex that always made me forgive him even when he was an ass.

He was violent. He went deeper than what was comfortable. He made the bed shake. He made me scream, partially because I was reaching an orgasm and partially because I was in pain. It was like each thrust alternated pleasure and pain and the more I cried out the harder he went. I was his cheer leader cheering him on. He pulled out to finger me, and to speed my satisfaction. I realized that he wanted to see me come. In the midst of his feeling powerful, he needed to feel the ultimate power. I did and he did shortly after.

He rolled over and fell into a deep slumber. By then it was dark. The dogs were quiet. I could hear nothing but the hum of silence. The ripe smell of sex was taking center stage. It was all over both of us. He looked so happy. I suddenly wished I could take back that orgasm, and give him back all of the pleasure and pain. I felt dirty. I felt like he knew how to control me. I felt as if he had found me in my darkness and taken advantage of me at my most vulnerable moment.

I put my panties back on and tip toed into the backroom. I shut the door and turned on the shower, the sound of the water drowning out the wail of my tears.

- Geneva