Loving A Brown Girl: 06/10/2012 20:51

He sneaks it-cyanide style. The smell of bitter almonds mixing with the sweet tinge of soiled panties and professional wear.

“I don’t think I could ever see myself being with someone like you.”

I can’t quite comprehend his need to be Captain Obvious. I haven’t taken him seriously since the proposal twenty-six months ago. His baritone stammering in half confidences to explain his platonic reasoning for wanting to marry me:

“If we get married you can come out here and travel…and it’ll be easier for you to get a good government job too. Plus we both’ll get a monthly stipend. So maybe you can just write without having to worry about money.”

Over seven thousands miles of aeration and it still reeked of bullshit, but in my post graduation fog of a 9.6 unemployment rate — marrying for professional development sounded like the most responsible thing to do.

I was tired too, in perfect honesty. I wanted to pull the short-cut latch and slide from my present juggling of three shitty jobs and living at home into a plush peace of mind and independence of being some Marine’s dependent.

But as I’ve hinted, he was full of shit. So fecal in nature that I often mistook him for a colostomy bag. A colostomy bag who appears authentically correctable in black boxer briefs, the one thing that made him nestled unabashedly by black cotton. Smoke and mirror men with sizable dicks are the most dangerous reality. Even though I knew his true identity, I still found myself outraged when the birth certificate and the multitude of forms I filled out and the thousand dollar plane ticket I purchased mounted to a three am drunken apology for disrespecting me with such a capitalistic plan. A three am phone call on a Tuesday that showed I had been a colossal fool.

I sigh, crouched in the darkness of my luxury walk in closet comforted by the four year old Ikea dresser in substantial disrepair, overflowing dirty clothes hamper and the dehydrated stinkbug carcasses hidden among the water stained floorboards. His cadence while itemizing my unlovable bits with “heartfelt regret” has lightened. In the six years I’ve known him, discounting the stint of prepubescent angst regarding our middle school and ninth grade coexistence, I’ve developed a sensitivity for this tone. A pressure point for his smug manipulation. Rage springs, cold and dark; blanketing the hollowness of hurt. Somewhere along the monotony of our stick and moves, I’ve missed the ding-ding. As he apologies for the fifteenth time in our ten minute conversation, a fact recently discovered as I left his strategic deception to scroll the photos of his redeeming nudity, there’s a knock and the door opens a breath after. I had heard the drunken squeals of excitement and ribald demands for, “my black ass to come on already! It’s starting!” from the living room. It’s hard to hush their concern in the mist of desperately extinguishing the fire at the back of my throat. But she knew. I could tell by the look she gave as the much anticipated vampire theme song mixed with all of my life’s funk like amyl nitrite. There were things lurking in both his and mine’s mist, that will produce an irony even sadder than our current bare knuckled boxing. But in this present, monumentally: she knew. I could tell in the look she gave erasing the pretensions of grandeur that I wasn’t bleeding, foreshadowing concern in her wide eyes and crinkled eyebrows. Not that I would let that be known, my annoyed look dismisses her almost before she can complete:

“Are you okay?”

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