This series happens once a week. In order to understand what’s going on in the series, be sure to read the column, in order.
Edwin & Chris
We all stood and looked at one another confoundedly.
Edwin spoke first, “Hi, can we help you?”
Chris extended his hand, “I’m Christopher, Erica’s uhhh…friend. And you are?”
Edwin shook Chris’ hand, “I’m Edwin, Erica’s man. Hi, Chris.”
My eyebrows would’ve hit my hairline, if they could’ve gone any higher.
I interrupted their introduction, “My what? Chris, this is Edwin, my friend. What are you doing here?”
Edwin folded his arms, like he was awaiting some sort of explanation. I didn’t owe him anything.
“When my mom said you didn’t get back to her, I figured I’d just come over. I didn’t think you’d take my call either.”
“I didn’t take your mom’s call, because I wasn’t interested in dining with your family. I’ll pass on the I’m-sorry party.”
A nosey Edwin cut in, “Sorry for what? This guy dissed you?”
Edwin said ‘this guy’, as if Christopher was beneath him. I watched him take in Chris’ slim frame and boat shoes; I knew his Retro Jordan wearing behind wasn’t judging anyone, after asking if he could stay with me.
Chris suddenly had some serious bass in his voice, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
He turned his attention back to me, “Can we talk?”
Edwin stepped down to the sidewalk to face Chris, “You don’t see her talking, already?”
I was all kinds of peeved, “This is ridiculous. We’re not talking anymore, Edwin. You can’t stay here. Chris, I’ll pass on dinner and talking. You both can leave.”
The two men stood in the Brooklyn night, bewildered that I’d turned my back to them. I walked inside, put my phone on silent, and went back to writing.
I chose myself, again.
I don’t remember where I read it, but I’m sure it was written by Zane. She said something to the effect of: Every woman should live alone, for at least a year. When you know what it’s like to be alone, to enjoy the solace of your own company, you’ll be less likely to let ruckus come to your dinner table.
I was writing, at my dinner table. Merlot was in a wine glass nearby, cheese sat on a small cutting board, my keyboard sounds muddled with jazz, playing in the background. I treated myself well, the chaos could stay outside. I only wanted someone that would add to the warmth I’d surrounded myself in.
I decided to wait, until that came along, even if it took a little longer than I expected.
Mason
I made it to D.C. for my performance, a day early. I couldn’t wait to shake NYC. I loved my city, but the irritating commute, the rudeness of strangers, and the filth could be a bit much sometimes. D.C., Maryland, and Northern Virginia were my getaways. I’d decided to spend my day in a coffeehouse, writing and prepping for my show. While getting ready, I received a text from a Facebook friend I’d met a few days prior via a status by a mutual friend.
“You in town?”
I responded, “Yeah. I got here early.”
“Lunch? Conversation?”
I agreed. During our FB messages, we’d exchanged similar experiences. He was a music journalist and I used to be. I thought back to our talk and instantly surmised that this would be a networking conversation. It was something to do.
I arrived at the place we’d agreed on, late. It was winter and I walked. Ice was everywhere and I moved extra slow, just in case he was outside waiting and would witness me bust my ass. When I got there, he was already inside. I looked around and finally spotted him, sitting in the back, typing on his laptop. He looked up, recognizing me instantly, and I smiled. As I walked closer to him, I realized that his pictures didn’t do him justice. He was beautiful.
It’s rare that I call a man beautiful.
Mason had eyes like the 99 cent porcelain Korean Hwarang warriors that my grandmother had around her living room, just to hint that she had “culture.” He intrigued me just the same: lifted him up, assessed his whereabouts, looked for scrawling underneath that might signify where he was from or who’d loved him before.
I was spot on. He told me that he was one-fourth Korean and I guessed that the other three-fourths was charm. We talked for hours, neglecting to order drinks, intrigued with one another’s experience.
He wore the same humor and variation of faces to conceal something deeper, something that wasn’t far if you looked in his eyes long enough. His thick brows furrowed, when he spoke of his father and softened when he spoke of his mother. It was clear who’d emitted their love through upbringing and who’d done it through actions. I pretended that I didn’t see any of it. I let him talk of his history, of his love affair with melody, and the importance of pursuing his passion. I joked around and called him a kid, because he was two years younger than me, but he truly was one when talking about what he loved. I was ecstatic to see my interests set a fire in someone else. He was bright-eyed, ambitious, and eager for the next chapter.
We were mid conversation, but needed to go our separate ways. I tiptoed through the ice, excited about getting to know more about him.
Things don’t always turn out the way we plan, but sometimes that’s a good thing. Perhaps, I’ll start dating again sooner than I thought.
I’m still looking for a love jones…in D.C.?
Rivaflowz is an educator and freelance writer, living in New York. You can read more of her work at Rivaflowz.com and follow her on Twitter/Instagram at @rivaflowz. Her first book “Intention” is now on Amazon.
