Noni Jones in Harlem

Archive for the ‘Noni’ Category

NONI

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 cooped 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. Those were the only clues  I needed.  I would recognize that silhouette anywhere. Even in the dizzying strobe. It was the same  silhouette that made my heart skip a beat when I first laid eyes on him at an Af-Am House Party my sophomore year. I parted from my friends and boldly snuggled up to him for a dance. 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 inscription 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. We first  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,  pleading with both his fingers and tongue– I couldn’t let him enter me. We were still practically strangers.  I wasn’t bout it enough– I guess, and so he moved on.  I thought something was wrong with me. I tortured myself with thoughts of inadequacy, fretting over my inability to seduce this fly man.  But after many  sleepless nights, and hunger pains (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 doctor 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 now,” 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 preferred 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 catch our breaths, 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, you are too much.”

“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. I got sleepy off my first. Men approached us.  Caroline and I had both studied, thoroughly, 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 was planning on throwing my dress on the floor and collapsing onto my big, fluffy  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. “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 Philadelphia. 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 rubbing it in.

“Well, Carter was out of town. 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 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 the words stated in my absence. She wore a satisfied grin. Carter looked furious. And dammit, I was trying 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.

-Noni

NONI

View Larger Map

How are there hundreds of channels and not a single thing for a lonely girl to watch on a Friday evening? Flashback to undergrad. It was Friday night and I was sitting in bed eating banana chips that I kept spilling in the sheets. I was frustrated. Finally I stopped at TLC, which was airing a wedding reality show. Big surprise. There was a Nigerian couple (which of course made me think about Caroline) dressed in traditional African garb getting down to the electric slide. My stomach hurt. I think it was the pang of envy.

Ever since my return from the vineyard, I’ve been haunted by images of white dresses and veils. All of the arrant displays of couple-dom, newly weds with their shiny kids sprawled out on the beach. Old couples with their gaudy jewelry and summer homes. The Vineyard was where elite black love came to marinate and affirm itself. I left feeling happy, not affirmed.

My dear sweet Caroline calls venting about Lance. All of a sudden the man who was so much, was wanting too much. Life according to Caroline. The quintessential alpha-female.

“But you just were talking about how amazing he was before you left for Paris.”

“I know. I was under the influence.”

“Of what?”

“Sex.” Good point. Good looks and good sex are smoke screens in relationships. But in this case, I believe my friend was over-whelmed. Too much at one time.

“So what changed then?”

“Okay, for one he has his son now. Noni, I actually forgot, he was coming to live with him. Like, I’m a terrible person.”

“Wait, you’re not terrible, you’re busy. But why is that an issue? It’s not like he’s a baby.”

“I know, but then Lance is all like “Why didn’t you return my calls” and “Are you going to keep in touch” you know…?”

“You mean, he was acting like he cared about you? The inhumanity!” I chuckled.

“No, he was acting insecure. Like, damn, our whole last encounter felt like he was giving me some sort of ultimatum…. You know either be accountable to him or nothing. I mean…. I can’t right now. You know.”

“I know that if you play games someone else will have your man girl. What do you want from him? Because you can have sex with any one?”

It was a puzzling question for Caroline that made her admit that though she could slay many men, she was over, perhaps too mature to have sex for just sex’s sake. She was at the stage that we all reach, where it has to mean something, at least a little something, for it to be good. But with Lance, it meant a lot. They were two people, one stubborn, one scared, who’d loved each other though they never said it.

” I’m dealing with craziness at work,” she insisted, “and Lance– Lance is work. He has his insecurities. He has responsibilities. I’m starting to think it’s just bad timing.”

“Caroline, remember who you’re talking to. Carter has a child and an ex-wife!”

“Yes, and a girlfriend that’s never met either.”

“Okay, point taken. But still I think you’re scared. He’s rocking you’re world and you don’t want to lose control.”

Caroline wanted everything-but, and I just wanted everything.

As Caroline contemplated the possibility of sex without strings, I began to question whether a wonderful twenty-something could love without the promise if a ring. Really, the questions aren’t so different. Both situations run the risk of pissing someone the hell off.

Can a couple have sex for sex’s sake? Can a couple love just because? I think so, but both people must agree to lose themselves in the moment, forget about time and hold that wonderful feeling in their mouths like sugar crystals they don’t want to dissolve. But let’s be real. Before long, someone is going to get caught up and want more, or less. At some point the relationship will transition into that of giver and taker. At some point the magic will run it’s course.

But then again, even legitimate liaisons flaunt the possibility of running their course. After all, Caroline and Lance’s love affair shattered with a return trip home. And Carter is divorced.

The only certainty is that there are no certainties.

I spied a pack of banana chips on the counter when I came in on Tuesday. I salivated at the sight, but considering it’s Ramadan I still had three hours before I sunset. I’m two weeks in to the spiritual month that always brings clarity into my life, but I’m feeling empty this go round. Like something is missing. And perhaps that awareness is the clarity I need.

For one. Carter. He’d left a note on the counter top saying he was headed to New Jersey for the evening. Wonderful. Probably better that he wasn’t here to meet Mr. Flamboyant, the interior decorator I’d invited over. Nothing set in stone, but Carter gave me the green light to redecorate our entire apartment, on his account of course. When I moved in he made the ultimate concession. He gave me the bigger walk-in closet which was upper-Eastside huge, but it was still his place. The library is lined with his books on music, African empires and Black rage. I have my corner of books on the left end of the middle shelf, bindings that I have to physically see every day. The Arabic love poets, Qabani, Bayati, Rumi, my Langston anthology, my copy of Waiting To Exhale and a James Baldwin reader. Everything else is still stacked in milk crates cluttering the room. The house still reflects Carter’s manly zen, his expensive minimalism; upscale, modest furniture that doesn’t inhibit the free movement energy. There is no romance here, no passion, no love on the walls. Only a few jazz paintings and a portrait of Malcolm X. There are no burgundies, reds,or quaint shades of pink. The house is a cocoon of cognac, chocolate, beige and black. Our apartment is very much a man.

Mr. Flamboyant wants to paint the ceiling moldings in gold leaf, drape the windows in sanguine silks and tassels. He wants to create a palace for me and my King. He wants me to be the Imelda Marcos of Morningside Heights. And as I grinned and nodded in agreement to his every over-the-top vision, I couldn’t help but think to myself, maybe in the absence of promise, I am all too eager to fill my world with beauty. It’s a temporary cure to my emptiness. After all, there is always art for art’s sake.

-Noni

NONI

I was at the head of the table, facing two rows of 4 beautiful black couples. This was a random sampling of North Jerseys Black crème de la crème and I’d known them all since childhood; a cosmetic surgeon, a retired banker, an international business man, mom and dad. We were at Deons, a black owned restaurant on Circuit and we’d been waiting forever for the main course. They must have been in the back killing the chickens and pulling out their feathers . 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 of Whitley Gilbert, my childhood idol. Too bad. Vernon Jordan’s daughter was beside us, with a party of like ten. Rumor has it Chelsea Clinton is getting married at her father’s house at the end of the summer. Of course she denied this.

I was the center of attention. They were looking back at me, intrigued by my new life. Now that I’d given up my television career to write, what exactly did I do all day?

I know. The answer should be obvious.

“So are you headed to law school now?” Aunt Natalie, mom’s best friend, was was seated to my immediate left sounding more like a prosecutor than the surgeon she was.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should. Columbia’s in your backyard. 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. Some of us know how to write magnificently, and a few of us know how write stuff that people actually want to read. I put myself in the latter group and I eat well.

Nonetheless, my sudden career shift and fly by night romance had taken Aunt Nat by surprise. 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; go to grad school, marry some well-bred corporate man named Darius or maybe 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.”

“Divorced.”

“Divorced, but he has kids?”

“One 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 waiter the serious side-eye glance.

“How old is she?”

“Eight.”

“Okay, so he still practically has another family.” A lot of people think my Aunt Natalie is pushy and can’t stand her for it. She’s never been one to mince words but frankly I’m too old for her critique. My mother doesn’t even sweat me like she does.

“Damn Nat,” my dad said emphatically wincing as if he’d just taken a shot. Like vodka, Natalie’s candor was equally shrill. “I like your style! You don’t even try to sugar coat it.” Laughter erupted around the table. It wasn’t that funny.

“I mean I’m saying! I know she likes this guy but a woman has to think about the future! You guys put too much into her for her to end up with just anybody.” She faced me with a smirk. “What happens five years down the line when you figure out he’s been having a good time at your expense?” She was pointing at me with the same hand that bore her five carot engagement ring. I think she bought it for herself. “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?!” Lynn, the free spirit, blurted out.

“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.”

A smile spread across her face. “You know what, you look happy, don’t she? She looks like she’s in love,” Lynn said in her playful Chi-Town accent. “I say go for it girl, do whatever makes you happy.”

I smiled at her. She was always the one I could relate to. Lynn’s the life of the party. The child in her never went away. She and her husband have traveled the world. She lived in Japan for a decade, learned the language, how to make excellent sushi, and worked for a huge firm over there. She’s sophisticated as they come, fierce, but she doesn’t take herself or any of this pretension too seriously.

“Well… we’re proud of Noni,” mom said, always the diplomat, “But we still have to get used to fact that she’s living with him.”

“So where is his place?” Aunt Natalie asked.

“Morningside Heights. The Paterno.”

“Oh, okay, so he’s balling!” I had to laugh at her attempt at hipness. Everyone else did too. ” No! No! No!” she shouted over our voices, “I mean the man probably does have money coming out of his pores, but do you love him or do you love being his girlfriend?”

They hushed for my answer. For the first time in my life, the spotlight was too hot. “Of course I love him and he loves me. He’s a good guy.”

“Look” she covered my hand with hers, “I believe you. But Noni, there’s a kid and his baby’s mother. And trust, if she finds out he’s dating someone as smart and pretty as you, she’s going to get jealous and indignant. You don’t want that kind of drama. It might be cool at first, but after a while it’s going to be too much. Sweetie you are too young and your parents have invested too much into you for you to end up in some dead end relationship with an older man. I mean, chances are, he’s going to move on. If not for the simple fact that he’s already paying alimony. And trust me, you don’t want to be thirty just starting your search for a husband.”

“Wow.” I was speechless.

She wasn’t done. “And Noni, if he’s fifteen years older than you, do you really want to be taking care of your husband at 50’s when he’s pushing 70? Changing his diapers and shit!”

They bust out.

“Damn that was cold!” my father said.

“I’m kidding, but you know what I mean.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open, Aunt Nat. I promise.”

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 an elite Black family and her in-laws despised her. But the fact that her husband’s family never came over for the Holidays and talked bad about her to her face and behind her back was irrelevant. What mattered was that she had a last name that meant something (to a select group of people) and a daughter with, as she put it, ‘good’ hair. A daughter that was being raised by a Portuguese nanny. Prior to this conversation we were talking about a Long Island couple whose daughter didn’t get into an ivy-league school—even after the prestigious New England boarding school and violin lessons. Touche. She’d been accepted to Georgetown but her parents, a surgeon and a Black Stepford wife, weren’t happy with that. It wasn’t ivy-league. It wasn’t name brand. The solution: Rather than have her attend a school that was beneath her, They made her take a year off. She would do some shallow community service while living in the comfort of her parents spare Upper East side apartment and re-apply in the fall. I mean… really?

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. It’s about elitism. Money can’t buy your way into the Ivy League. Carter had plenty of money but even his fortune didn’t afford him Aunt Nat’s acceptance. It is the unspoken difference between the Atlanta Housewives and The Links. Vanessa Bryant and Michelle Obama.  Hollywood romance versus Spel-House love.

And for these folks, elitism isn’t a flaw. It’s just force of habit.

I managed to escape dinner unscathed, but that food took forever to come . Too bad.
****

We headed to a get-together after dinner at the Davis’. Their summer home is in a wooded section of Oak Bluffs, removed from the touristy area that lines the beach. The husband is retired now, but he was VP of a major corporation in his day. I was sitting in their front room, studying family portraits and nursing a “Michelle Obama-tini” when I realized their son was home.

Langston Davis the Third. My, my, my. This man has the distinguished air of an Earl and a movie star’s swag. He entered the room wearing a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and suede drivers. His goatee was sharp, his peanut skin bronzed with the glaze of the sun. He had a little more girth than I remembered and I could tell that his hair line was receding. It was cut low. But this man was still fine. He looked like money and smelled like Ralph Lauren.

He’d 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 tussled in the salt-air. I was sporting a strapless pink Lilly Pullitzer and matching Jack Rodgers sandals. When I was a 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 beautiful cocoa brown, his companions were always soft-spoken, trim, and the color of butter. I’d made these assumptions but from the way he was sizing me up, like I was Italian ice on a hot day in July, maybe I was wrong.

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

“How’d you know? Oh Facebook.” I grinned. “Yes, sales are good. Knee-deep in the second one.”

“ So what do you write about?”

“Love, what else?”

“War, politics, sci-fi… mysteries.”

I laughed at his point. “Well I like to write books that turn people on. Books that remind them that romance isn’t dead, it’s our faith in it that dies. Those are the books that fly off the shelves.”

“I see. You’re probably right.”

“ 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 low-key , myself.”

“You live in the city?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why haven’t you visited me? Me and my frat bros throw parties all the time.”

“You have to send me a line next time you do. You still at JP?”

“No, I left at the beginning 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 affectation 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 my car smelling like frankincense and myrhh… like strong spice taken straight from the cradle of civilization. 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 meet my parents and their friends at the beach, but Carter was tired. He’d just finished a two-night gig in Madrid. We showered together, I made love to him, and we napped.

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 hid 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 just want to write it.

-Noni

In light of Whitney Houston’s comeback, I’m posting a live performance from 1993, the height of her career. Awesome! Try not to compare Old Whitney to new Whitney, because it’s not even a fair comparison. Just be glad the diva is back!!
-NONI

NONI

Thursday began in Johnny’s uptown apartment, which also doubles as his hair studio. I needed to get out of the house, and listening to him gossip about his other clients was a welcome distraction from my worries. Johnny worked his magic, and gave me head full of luscious auburn ringlets. I left shaking my head, looking great– feeling so so. Carter was getting in that afternoon, and ever since my cab-ride revelation, I was dreading his arrival.

View Larger Map

I didn’t know how I’d initiate it, but Carter and I had to have it out. I needed clarification on his romantic past and exactly where I fit in his future. As his live-in girlfriend of 3 months I felt I deserved to know why he divorced his ex-wife and if he ever planned to remarry. With too much idle time on my hands, my negative thoughts escalated, deepening my defiance toward him. I was convinced that the man I recognized as my soul mate would leave me. Suddenly. Single. Successful. Jaded. Well, maybe. My heart needed resolution.

I think he could tell.

Mr. Jackson arrived on the back of a beautiful overture consisting of an unexpected delivery of 4 bouquets of white gardenias, my favorite flower. The note attached to each one read, “I love you madly”. No signature. I didn’t need one. My mood brightened, as I waltzed from vase to vase, inhaling their lush, opulent scent, each bud at the peak of its bloom.

I was watching Love Jones in leggings and a t-shirt, when I had the urge to switch outfits. I still didn’t know if I was going to confront him, but just in case, I needed to look the part. I paused the movie right before Darius recites “Blues for Nina”. I could watch that scene over and over again.

I slipped into a clingy artisan print dress and spritzed Coco Mademoiselle on my wrists and neck.

Darius and Nina were kissing in the rain, when Carter opened the door, a single leather bag slung over his shoulder. For some reason he had never looked so good. He was wearing a golf shirt, light wool slacks, and black leather loafers with an elongated toe box. He was a little silver at the temples, and his locks were tied at his neck, cascading to the small of his back. He was smiling as if our three day separation had been three months. I can recall the tom-toms in my chest as I returned the expression, a brief, pregnant silence.

He was home, and when he wrapped his arms around me tight and found the sweet spot in my neck to kiss, I could barely recall ever having doubts about us. I just knew how wonderful it felt press my body against his, and to know this man was all mine.

“Thanks for the flowers sweetie.”

“Did you like them?”

“I love them! It smells so wonderful in here.” I followed him into our bedroom.

“Yeah, it does smell good. And you look incredible. I like your hair like that.” It’s something about when a man acknowledges your efforts in looking good for him that just– hits the spot.

I sat down on the foot of our bed as I he dropped his bag in the closet.”I bought you something I thought you’d appreciate.”

“Really? What did I do to deserve this treatment.” The last time we spoke at length, I was having a tantrum.

He re-emerged. “Sometimes you have to remind those you love, just how much you love them.” He let my silence punctuate his sentence, and I’m sure he could tell by the way I looked up at him, that I was falling in love all over again. “This is yours. It’s actually two things.”

He lifted his pants and took a seat beside me. He rubbed my back as I lifted a Creed box out of the Saks bag. “Perfume!” I looked closely at the box and saw that it was the perfumers limited edition scent, Fleurs de Gardenia. I’d never smelled it but I remembered there was a waiting list at Saks when it was first released. “Fabulous!” I gushed, unwrapping the box and catching sight of the elegant winter-white leather atomizer. “I can’t wait to wear it!” I kissed his cheek.

“There’s more in there.”

I retrieved a velvet box. I knew that he had a jeweler in LA but wasn’t expecting anything. I sighed before opening it. It was rectangular, a bracelet. “Carter…”

“I hope you like it. Open it up.” He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward, as if he wanted to catch my initial reaction.

It was sheer joy when I laid eyes on the emerald and diamond tennis bracelet inside. It was absolutely regal. He clasped it around my wrist.

He stood up and offered me his hand. We embraced for a second time, the sunlight pouring into our master bedroom, hitting the gem stones on my wrist and and scattering color along the walls. It was a moment that would have ordinarily lead to intense love making, but not that time. We channeled our lust into our busy hands, our lips, our eyes. We held on to each other for what seemed like an eternity. It was as if he wanted to our souls to reconnect. It was as if he felt he was loosing me.

He was not.

Carter walked to the grocer to get food for dinner, and I picked up desert, red velvet cupcakes from the Savoy bakery. Carter had plans to cater to me that evening and as he prepared my favorite dish, lamb with Moroccan spices, he wouldn’t let me lift a finger (probably a good idea). I set the dining room table, lit candles, and pumped the Quiet Storm play list from the stereo system.

Sade’s ‘Your Love is King’ was mellowing out when we sat down to eat. The air felt cleared, or maybe just lighter, as we made pleasant conversation. I asked him about the album he was in LA producing and he told me his was composing a new song that he couldn’t wait to play it for me. I shared with him that I was taking a break from my manuscript in order to work on some poetry.

Uncover me
Like this sheet
Were a poem of one hundred lines,
And astounding geometric cadence.

At dawn my ashes tell no secret.

“You’ve never had these cupcakes before? You’ve been in this neighborhood longer than me.”

“Yeah, you know I’m not big on dessert.” We were working on champagne and cupcakes for desert.

“You’re not into sweets?” I sad, frowning. That was my weakness.

“Except you cutie.” he shot back, pinching my butt.

I dipped my finger in the cream cheese icing and let him suck it off. It was unexpectedly erotic. He didn’t stop, a parade of kisses ensued, beginning in the palm of my hand and finishing on my forehead. We postponed dessert until the morning…well depending on how you define desert.

That night as he covered me with his body, and made old fashioned, missionary love to me atop our bed, I pushed every single reservation to the back of my mind. Our romance wasn’t perfect but I was content to let the mystery unravel. I realized that for once in my grown up life, I had committed my heart. I was down for the ride, be it bumpy or smooth, as long as Carter was in the driver’s seat.

I’ve come to the conclusion that most women are walking around with untied laces, trying to trip– and fall in love. And by fall in love I mean snag the man they think will make them complete. I had done that before, a few times. I mean I swore up and down that Ahmad, the surgical resident I dated in undergrad, was the be all, end all, one. I plummeted into depression when I realized he was far from it. Then there was the Scorpio… but that’s another story for another day.

I didn’t fall in love with Carter. Love fell on me.

It’s the universe, not people, who create relationships. It’s the universe that controls the horizontal gravity we so lovingly refer to as kismet. And when we go, fussing with fate, we run the chance of ruining magnificent, romantic possibility.

I fell asleep on his chest, fascinated by how his heart beat seemed to mirror mine. It was the first peaceful nights sleep I had in several days. My curls were a mess, but life as far as I knew it at that very moment, was glorious.

I’m packing for Martha’s Vineyard. Carter will be joining my family and I on the island that I consider my second home. I hope I can convince my parents to trust me on this one. But what do you think? Do I really need to ask him about his ex-wife and future plans or can I just relax?

-NONI