The first part of this column is HERE. Trust me, you’ll want to read it. The stories are connected. 🙂
I’m a Love Jones fan.
The only Darius I know is a class one a-hole, that looks in the mirror way too often. I won’t lie though–he’s super gorgeous. Well, he was. Some of us age better than others.
I was the writer in our brief union, but definitely a Nina when it came to the dangerous line between coy and courage. When he broke my heart, I got up at an open mic that his fraternity was hosting and performed a poem that tore him to shreds.
Yimmy-ya that. Trick.
I own the film in DVD form. I don’t own a DVD player due to my all Apple everything crib, iTunes heavy, but I still watch it every now and then on Youtube. (Thank God for hackers and freebies.)
While I’m watching, I try to juxtapose the happenings of my current life versus what’s happening on the screen. Sigh. It’s a scary comparison.
(Editor’s Note: the next part of this story is a continuation from the story told last week. If you missed it, be sure to read it here first.)
I spent the next few days trying to juggle the attention of the men I’d been talking to.
Trey and I sent tons of texts, trying to flesh out the the vision for a script and cracking jokes in between. Edwin sent memes and called in between shows/flights. He was touring with Usher and had little time to speak between sets, but emojis were enough to let me know I was on his mind.
On the day I was supposed to meet Trey, I went shopping, got my hair done, and my nails done. (Yeah, I was doing the most.) Clearly it was selfie time.
I stood in my mirror, arm angled to perfection, when I noticed an IG name, I didn’t recognize, going on a liking spree.
C’mon ladies…we know how it is:
1 Like: Hi. Look at my page, but I’m not following you until you follow me.
10 Likes: Hey girl. I notice you.
15 Likes, Follow: Hey girl. I notice you and I’m going to keep noticing you.
15 Likes, Follow, Comment, and a slim chance of a D.M.: Hey girl. WE GO TOGETHER.
Okay…maybe that last one was me getting a bit carried away.
But then there’s the most brazen tactics of all:
The infamous comment on a seventeen week old photo, that’s a straight up conversation starter or the direct attack on your most recent photo, for the world to see. (A man making his claim, before allowance.
Christopher did both.
He jumped from photo to photo, leaving inquiries on each one:
“Where do you live?”
“What are you up to, tonight?”
“Can a brother, like me, get a chance, with a sister, like you?”
I clicked his name and went to his page. I knew him, well…kind of. Christopher was a fellow grad school alumni of my “little brother”, a younger friend from the HBCU I went to for under grad. I’d seen him in hangout photos before and he was beautiful. He was slim, toned, and tall as hell, a fan of bow-ties and suspenders. He was a legacy kid, southern elite. His mom and aunts were in the same sorority, he and his father in the same fraternity, and his grandparents and great-grandparents had done the same
He was the type of man that knew exactly what he wanted for himself, his children, and his children’s children. He knew where he’d be in 5, 10, and 15 years. I’d never met anyone like him.
Of course, I learned all about this after we began to know each other. In this moment, I was able to to ascertain, from his page, that he was easy on the eyes, big on family, and about his business.
I wrote back, under one of his photos: Brooklynite. Headed out. Maybe. Hi, Christopher.
Trey and I didn’t dance to reggae music, all night, at the Wild Hair, but we hit up a great salsa spot.
He said he’d been itching to use a Groupon for salsa dancing that was about to expire and they just happened to have salsa dancing, late night, too.
As we walked inside, I said, “This is turning into more of a date, than a business meeting.”
He pulled my chair, from under the table, “It never was a business meeting.”
We spent the next few hours talking about our potential script, argued over character dialogue and description, and laughed at how stubborn we both were.
After we were full and grew tired of talking about the script, we headed to the dance floor. I cringed at a my reoccurring klutz, that kept happening over and over again.
I stepped on his shoes.
I grabbed his hand too hard, when I almost fell.
I’m sure I went in the wrong direction, when he tried to spin me out and bring me back to him.
He thought every stumble was cute and laughed at all of my errors.
When it was all said and done, we couldn’t stop looking at one another.
We sat still, in the car, listening to cars hum as they passed us.
He touched my hand and said something corny. I think it was, “Girl…I don’t want to do your deposits anymore.”
I laughed and started the car for him.
In my best patois accent: “You’re fresh. Take me home, handsome.”
Edwin from the skating rink called late and looking for answers.
“We should hang out, this week.”
I lay back in my sheets, “We should. Where do you want to go?”
“I was thinking you could come over.”
I snickered, “We should go outside.”
“It’s cold. Let’s stay in and watch a movie. There’s this indie called “Chef” that just came out. I think you’ll love it. I’ll even cook.”
I considered it, “Maybe. I have to check my schedule.”
“Oh really? Busy, huh? I like that.”
“I bet you do. It’ll keep me out of your hair.”
Stacy Barthe played in his background. It told me a lot about him, but I didn’t let him know.
He was quiet for a minute, “I have to ask you something.”
“How close are you and Marsha?”
“Really close. She had my back in college.”
“Hmmm. I think I need to be honest with you about something.”
I sat up in my bed, feeling like I knew what was coming, “Okay, I’m listening.”
“After her party, she was asking about my interest in you.”
“I told her that I was digging you, but not until after she told me that she was into me.”
I listened for more.
“Do you want to pursue that?”
I gulped. I was getting to know other people, but I had an eerily strong connection with Edwin. It was something we both could feel, before we even spoke.
“No. Absolutely not. I think she’s come at me before, but I missed the cues. I know that’s your friend and all. I don’t want to mess with that.”
Before I could respond, my other line beeped. It was Marsha.
“She’s calling me now. When did you talk to her?”
“Right before this. This is why I called you.”
I was angry and annoyed. I got the feeling he was trying to play the both of us. I clicked over.
“What’s up Marsha?”
“Hey boo. Can I come over? I was in the neighborhood and I think we need to talk.”
There are very distinct types of men you meet in your twenties:
The long distance brother, because you’re not so sure that your soulmate exists in the “desert” you call home.
The inconsistent man, because you’re not sure if he’s not interested or just extremely goal oriented (b/c that’s what you want, anyway).
The Mister Perfect, because perfection means there’s a HUGE flaw waiting for your heart to reach your sleeve.
I’d met all three at one time.
And I was excited and scared, all at once.
See you next week, slim.
Rivaflowz is an educator and freelance writer, living in New York. You can read her first dating series “In The Meantime” and her fiction, at Rivaflowz.com.