Noni Jones in Harlem

NONI

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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