Black Silk

by Retha Powers

  “Setting you free will only make me a prisoner.”

  “Love me like you say you do. Let me go. Please.”

  All that mattered was what was in this room.

  I moved into her space, unfolded her arms, put them around my shoulders, put my hands around her waist, my warm cheek against hers.

  She said, “Please, sweetie, don’t do this.”

  The moment our flesh was reunited, I kissed her lips and her tongue eased inside my mouth. She quivered, moved her flesh closer to mine. I closed my eyes, my breathing desperate as I held her so close that I couldn’t tell where she ended and I began. My hands traced along her waist, found the snap at the top of her jeans, then the buttons below.

  Her hand came down to my hand, and when I thought she was about to push me away, she said, “Let me help.”

  “No, let me undress you.”

  “Wait. I have to do something.”

  She pulled away, shifted foot to foot, sighed, took her wedding ring off.

  We paused, stared at each other.

  She swallowed, pulled her lips.

  So did I.

  I pulled up her sweater and touched the small of her back, caressed her face, brought her tongue to mine. My hand pulled her jeans down to her knees, then my fingers went down below.

  I said, “Damn, you’re wet.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  I massaged the dampness on her black lace panties, touched the outside of her vagina, these fingers tracing along the edges of that place where all men come from and yearn to get back inside, tracing circles, then moving in and out in tune with her craving, playing a melody of lust on that part of her that swells when she’s excited.

  She said, “Don’t wrinkle my clothes, sweetie.”

  “You’ve never worried about that before.”

  “Just don’t wrinkle my clothes.”

  On the living room floor I pulled everything away from her, piece by piece. Put them neatly to the side. Then I kissed her breasts while I loved her with my hand. My fingers moved away and my tongue took their place, wiggling, licking, becoming the flesh that excited her genitals. Her eyes fluttered, breathing heavy, mouth barely parted. Over and over she said yes, yes, yes.

  I wanted to love her back to me. I wanted this to change her mind, change her heart, make her forgive me.

  She unzipped my jeans, hurried her hand inside, pulled on that hardening flesh.

  “Your penis is so beautiful. I love the way it curves to the left.”

  “If you won’t come back to me, come back to it, then.”

  I swelled with her small hands on me. Her thumb tracing my dampness as it seeped, whispering in a vulnerable tone that she wanted me inside.

  I said, “You know what I want first. Go ahead.”

  Her mouth surrounded my girth, did that while her hand moved me up and down, mouth and hand playing in harmony, creating so much heat inside me. She moved her mouth away but kept using her hand when she raised her head, moved her hair away from her face long enough to look across the room at the clock. Then she put her mouth back on me.

  She said, “You have a big dick.”

  “Compared to whose dick?”

  “Hush.”

  I laid her back on the carpet, and she parted her legs with the grace of a ballerina. Then with a bright smile she moaned, “Inside me. I want you inside me.”

  I paused, teased. She begged, reached for me, pulled me, put me at the edge of her opening, and the moment I felt the warmth and wetness I glided inside that moist, hidden world she owned.

  Her soft wails became music. “Yes, sweetie, yes.”

  I squinted my eyes and sang the second chorus: “Yes, baby, yes.”

  Her short nails marked the walls of my tropical skin, leaving hieroglyphics that spoke of her pleasure. She held my ass and moved into me, bucking into me when it started feeling too good.

  “Don’t stop, sweetie. Don’t stop.”

  Her love was coming down; trembles had taken over her body. Passion had her tongue. I looked in her face, watched her glow and orgasm. When she was done, she got on top of me and did the same, moved up and down, did that intense rise and fall until my face glowed, until I trembled and pulled her to me over and over.

  Then we rested side by side, her leg over mine, our sweat mixing. We rediscovered breathing. I could hardly raise a finger. I had to search for the energy to try to talk. I didn’t know what to say. She reached over and touched my dick. Held it. Squeezed it. Made it flop side to side.

  I panted, “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was distant, barely audible. “Fine.”

  She kept on flopping my dick, making it smack one leg, then the other.

  I asked, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m lying here, on a wet spot, your come draining out of me, so warm and sticky, trying to decide if you’re the best lover I ever had.”

  “Well, am I?”

  “If not, you’re a runner-up.”

  “To who?”

  “Whom, not who.”

  “To whom, then?”

  She didn’t answer. And she didn’t stop flopping me. It started to sound like a pendulum, like a clock that was ticking, tocking, ticking, counting down.

  She said, “You’ve never loved me like that before.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it because I’m married?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Because you can’t have me.”

  “Maybe.”

  Silence. She stopped flopping me, rose to her elbows, and again craned her neck, looked toward the clock.

  I tell her, “I love you.”

  “People aren’t looking for love. They want financial security, emotional security. They need and want to be desired.”

  “If you add that up, that’s love.”

  “I guess. The quest for pleasure.”

  Again, her eyes go to the clock.

  She spoke in a whisper. “And trust. Gotta have trust.”

  I touched her breasts, rubbed the nipples with the tips of my fingers, felt them harden.

  I asked, “Where’s your husband?”

  “Knicks are playing the Lakers. Told him I didn’t want to go.”

  “What? You don’t like Kobe?”

  “Overrated.”

  “Shaq?”

  “Overpaid.”

  We laughed. And I wondered if that was the last laugh we would share.

  I said, “There should be a black box to relationships.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like on an airplane. When it crashes, there’s always a black box that can tell you where you went wrong.”

  “You don’t look at a black box until after the crash. Until it’s too late. You learn what you should do to keep from crashing the next time, ’cause it’s already too late for the flight you were on.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She said, “You’re my black box.”

  Her hand drifted back between my legs, touched that soft and wet, meaty part of me, each motion telling me she would miss what she felt. Her mouth followed her hand, tasted for a while, made me rise; then she kissed me, giving me back that salty flavor. She kissed me and gave it all back.

  Then I took my body to hers again. Eased inside wishing I could trap her here forever.

  She said, “You’ve never gone for a second round this fast.”

  I watched her face; became so excited by the glowing, by her craving. Then, after a few moments, her back arched in both pleasure and torment. I held her hips and eased in and out, did it with an intensity, still watching her the whole time, taking in the details of her face, listening to her sex sounds, all that good moaning telling me that she was falling into the abyss, into the bowels of a sweet sin.

  Her hands grabbed my ass, pulled me into her hips. She kissed me over and over, kissed me and told me, “I need you to set me free. Let me be married. Let me be happy.”

  “You talking
to me or my dick?”

  “Whichever part will listen to my heart.”

  Outside, the wind was singing, trees leaning with the rhythm.

  She wanted me to go faster, deeper, not to slow down, not to stop. She came hard, howled like the winds. I came harder. She panted. I panted. Panted and kissed until we had control, until the heat started to get cold. Then we rested next to each other, winded, sweaty, restless.

  I asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “Wondering if you said the same things to her when you fucked her. Did you tell her how good it was? If you made the same silly face you make before you come. If you held her and pushed deep inside her the same way you did me when you were about to come. Wondering how it tasted when she sucked your dick.”

  “It always goes back to that.”

  “It’s never left that.”

  “That’s why you married him.”

  “You broke my heart. I was pretty fucked up behind that.”

  “We can work it out.”

  “I can trust him. He loves me.”

  I rubbed my face against her breasts. Her breasts were soft, the nipples as black as my lonely nights of grief. My tongue found its way down her skin, lapping the traces of sweat on her flesh, over her navel. Her legs opened and I licked her for a while. So many sweet sounds escaped her face.

  When I slowed, came up for air, I said, “I can make it better.”

  She shook her head. “Your sex won’t heal me. Don’t be like every other man and think that you’ve been born with miracle genitalia.”

  She pushed my head away and rolled over on her stomach.

  I said, “Let me finish.”

  “No. You’re so fucking good at that. Too good at that.”

  Silence. My eyes went through the darkness, toward the window, tried to find the little brown leaf that was struggling, holding on for life.

  She told me, “He’s nice. I’ve never been with a nice guy.”

  “Ouch. What kind of man am I?”

  “Well, I asked for your soul and you gave me your dick. You tell me.”

  I put my hand on her. She pushed it away.

  She stood and spoke with unmistakable pain. “You should have given me what I wanted. Sweetie, you should’ve given me a lifetime commitment before someone else took your place.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  “I’m married.”

  “Get a fucking annulment.”

  “And do what, end up right where I started?”

  “I’ve changed.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She made a long airy sound that, in the same breath, spoke of her regret and told me I was a fool.

  Then she gathered her clothes. Put her wedding ring back on. Opened her purse and took out her own soap.

  I said, “You brought soap.”

  She didn’t answer. She had her own soap so she would smell the same way, the right way, when she got back home to her ignorant husband. She had planned this. Knew how this would go before she knocked on my door.

  “Want me to shower with you?”

  “No. I can manage.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shower cap?”

  “Same place it’s always been.”

  She went toward the bathroom. The door closed. The shower came on. I remained still, the stickiness that we had made drying on my flesh, its scent worming into my pores, nesting in my nose, the taste of her on my tongue, easing into my system, mixing in my blood, setting fire to the insides of my head. I imagined her with her husband. Anger made my teeth clench. My eyes filled with tears.

  Five minutes passed. She stepped into the hall, wrapped in a soft blue towel. Her wedding ring was sparkling in the hall lights.

  I said, “You still have things over here.”

  A slight nod telling me that she already knew.

  She pulled the paisley shower cap from her head, dropped it into the black trash basket next to the sink. She went through the cabinets and saw that everything was as she had left it months ago. She piled all her toiletries on the counter and carefully packed them into a clear plastic bag. Then she dropped that plastic bag into the trash as well.

  She eased into her ripped 501s, put her hand over her breasts, then politely slipped by me into the living room. She found her black bra, folded it, and stuffed it into her back pocket. Then she pulled her pink sorority sweatshirt from under my golden sweatshirt, pulled it firmly, as if it has been trapped but now was rescued from the weight that held it down.

  I tried to think of something to say. I couldn’t. No arrangement of words had any meaning.

  She kept wiping her hands on her butt, rubbing her neck, touching her face, tugging at the belt loops on her jeans, pulling her dignified hair away from her silver earrings.

  She did everything but look at me.

  Standing in the mirror, she unsuccessfully fought back the tears.

  “Eyeliner’s running.” She smirked. “I’ve got raccoon eyes.”

  She walked over to me, took short steps. Then we strolled through the door and began the long journey down the poorly lit, water-stained, green-carpeted hallway. We held hands as we waited for the temperamental elevator that always came when it was ready. When the elevator took too long, I followed her lead down the three flights of shaky stairs. Felt her body sigh as we leaned into the winds and crossed the leaf-littered parking lot.

  The leaves danced with our slow pace across the cracked asphalt.

  When she got into her car, it started without hesitation. After looking at me for a second, she slipped back out and stood next to me.

  “Don’t end up alone the rest of your life,” she whispered. “Be better to the next girl, okay?”

  I nodded. “So, this is it.”

  “Gonna miss you.”

  “Maybe sometime in the future we can get together. Maybe we can actually get a cup of cappuccino and talk.”

  “Nope. All you’ll try to do is slip inside and ride my wild side.”

  “I really do love you. You know that, right?”

  “Then let this be the end of it. Let this be our closure. We ended it the way we began it.”

  First the final hug, then the last kiss. Then I let her go.

  And just like that, with water-rimmed eyes, she got in her car and drove away. I prayed for her brake lights to come on, followed by the bright taillights letting me know she’d put it in reverse. She moved forward.

  The wrought-iron gate rattled as it slid open, a rusty wail of pain. My eyes were in her rearview mirror, but she never looked back. Her car accelerated, turned left; then she was gone. My throat tightened.

  I walked over to the tree. Watched that one stubborn leaf, watched it hold steadfast against God’s frigid breath. The winds gradually died. The leaf fell, twirled and pirouetted, landed not too far away. Maybe it wasn’t as strong as it pretended.

  I whispered, “Good-bye.”

  Kiwi

  _________________

  by Jacqueline Woodson

  Mercy says it’s Kiwi’s hands that make everyone act so stupid around her. Says Kiwi knows it and you can tell by the way she holds them, press out in front of her like she’s praying but the prayer’s aim at you, legs spread, elbows on her thighs. It’s those hands but it’s also those thighs that seem to go on forever, and even those elbows, the way the sleeves of her shirts fall down across them when she’s sitting like that. Mercy says the whole package makes you want to holler. Says Kiwi’s no joke.

  Some days I get all confused, don’t know if I want to be her or be with her. I picture us together—two girl-boys, all straight edges and sharp lines. Mercy says she feels some of that about Denzel Washington—especially when he walks on to the screen like he did in Devil in a Blue Dress—wearing just an undershirt and those khaki pants. Denzel’s no joke, Mercy says. I’d rather have him over anybody. But him and Kiwi got cut from the same bolt of fabric.

  Saturday night we go over there, bring our clothes underneath
dry-cleaning bags; Mercy’s got her makeup in a case. Kiwi lives on the East Side, Lower East Side, way over near the river where the people walk right up to you and ask what kind of dope you looking for. Mercy tells the first guy that comes up to us she’s got someone who’ll show him what kind of dope we looking for, he don’t watch what he’s saying. The boy walks away backwards, holding his stuff and cussing at us. Mercy doesn’t play that—been clean for nearly ten years and can’t even stand the smell of pot. Me, I get nice every once in a while when the mood hits me or someone’s offering something to take the edge off my day. Most days I’m temping for the All Call Agency. They’re good about sending me on long-term gigs. Nights, I practice my singing. Once in a while I get a gig with some fellas playing the clubs. I sing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and people sway side to side and nod like they’re remembering something from their way past. On a night when I’m feeling brave, I’ll do Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer.” That song makes me sad, though. Makes me think of all the nights I slow-dance naked in front of the mirror, watching my own body move with just the dim light from the living room coming into my bedroom. Sometimes, if the moon’s out and coming in through my window, my skin looks goldlike and I find myself running my hands slow over my breasts and down between my legs.

  With my eyes closed, I can imagine it’s Kiwi’s hands, her fingers pushing my thighs apart and moving slowly up inside of me. Then the music stops and I’m back in my own apartment, alone. And if the moon’s gone on behind a cloud, my skin doesn’t even look goldlike anymore. Loneliness can eat you whole and leave you standing. Some mornings heading to work, I feel a sadness so deep I want to moan. If I have a gig the evening after one of those mirror dances, I usually see tears in my audience’s eyes.

  I pull my bag of clothes tight to my chest and follow a step behind Mercy. She’s tall and broad shouldered, brown and pretty. Says the next person that uses some sort of food to describe her skin coloring is looking to have their head pulled off. Brothers always saying “Hey, Sweet Chocolate” and “Brown Sugar” and “Miss Truffle.” Mercy say she can’t stand how people don’t have any sense about description. Look in the mirror, she says to me one evening. I look. See my same self staring back at me. Big eyes. Hair pulled back into a braid. Nose is just a nose and lips Kiwi once called juicy in a way that made my insides dance around. Teeth white and straight and strong—a gift from my mother’s family. One dimple when I smile. People always surprised by it. Some say “Oh!” and nod—like they’re seeing me for the first time when it creeps into my cheek. It’s right below my left eye. My mama had a dimple there and her mama and so on all the way back, I hear. Mercy says, “What color would you call yourself?”