Choose Me

by Xenia Ruiz

  When Eva walked into the café, I almost fell from my chair, which I had been leaning against the wall. It wasn’t that she was a knockout, though she looked very nice; mostly, I lost my balance. She had changed out of her charcoal-gray fitted pantsuit and was wearing flared jeans and an orange blouse with long flowing sleeves that almost reached her knees. An orange print scarf covered her head, gathered into a large bun at the nape of her neck. The color accentuated flawlessly the red tones in her dark caramel skin.

  I had thought about arriving late and letting her wait for me, especially after she looked like she was trying to back out of meeting for coffee. Like she would hurt my feelings if she just came out and said, “No thanks.” But then, I didn’t want to take a chance that she might look for any excuse to lump me with the other men in her past. Women loved comparing men with their exes. I told myself I was going to be cool and not weak, let her do most of the talking, let her decide what was going to happen next, if anything. But when she looked at me with those big mysterious Latin eyes, I couldn’t help but light up.

  “You look … nice. That’s a great outfit,” I told her, instinctively standing and pulling out her chair. On the patio-sized, mosaic-top cocktail tables, the rose-shaped candleholders gave the place an intimate vibe, though I hadn’t paid too much attention before.

  “Thanks. You look nice, too.”

  “What, this old thing?” I had also changed into relaxed jeans and a black long-sleeved jersey T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up.

  As soon as she sat down, I saw her stare at the scars on my arms, but I didn’t volunteer an explanation. She would have to wait awhile before she knew me like that.

  I remembered the editorial and pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to her.

  “Oh, thanks. I completely forgot about it,” she said, reading it through.

  “Sure you did,” I teased. “I bet you can’t wait to frame it.”

  “It’s only an editorial. I’ve had other things published before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Have you ever heard of Diaspora?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a new magazine. It’s a religious-inspirational women’s magazine, sort of like Essence but it caters to the Christian market.”

  “Yeah, I don’t read too many women’s magazines.” I smiled, in case she took offense.

  “Well, you should read this one. They’ve published a couple of my articles on parochial schools and Christian colleges, and prayer in schools.”

  As she ran down the list of her publication credits, we ordered Cuban cappuccinos; they tasted sweet and strong, and vaguely reminiscent of liquor, which I had not had in a long time. She drank hers black, two sugars. I thought of asking her if she liked her men like she liked her coffee, but I decided against it. I didn’t know her that well but what little I knew told me she would take it the wrong way. Then I noticed her using her left hand to stir her coffee, and to lift her cup, something I hadn’t picked up before.

  “You’re left-handed,” I pointed out.

  “You are so perceptive.”

  I started to snap on her, but her mouth spread in that contagious smile and all I could do was return the same.

  On the slightly elevated stage, a woman dressed in what looked like a gypsy outfit, complete with hoop earrings and multicolored scarf, sat on a stool with a guitar, struggling to adjust the mike.

  “She thinks she’s India.Arie,” I kidded.

  “I like India.Arie.”

  “That’s my girl too; that’s why I don’t like impersonators,” I quipped.

  “It’s going to be alright,” she said condescendingly, giving me a look of mock empathy. The woman began strumming her guitar, basking in the glow of the votive candles surrounding the stage. She then began half moaning, half singing a ballad about unrequited love. We were far enough away where we could talk and not be rude, but Eva seemed to be enjoying the music so I kept quiet, observing her every now and then. I noticed that she was having a hard time keeping her sleeves out of the way, shaking her arms in the air to keep them from falling into her coffee cup or from catching on fire from the lit candle on the table.

  “This is my girlfriend’s blouse,” she finally explained. “You know, Simone.”

  “I thought her name was ‘S’Moneé.’”

  She rolled her eyes. “Long story.”

  “It’s nice.”

  Periodically, I could feel her eyes on me, glancing at my arms. Finally, I stretched my arms on the table purposely so she could get a real good look. Caught in the act, she pulled back, folded her hands in her lap, and met my eyes.

  “My sister said you write poetry?” she asked.

  “I dabble. You?”

  “Only what I wrote in high school, you know, juvenilia. Everyone thinks they’re a poet at that age. Teenage angst and all that.”

  “My highlight years,” I joked, remembering my early attempts at writing Shakespearean sonnets with an Amiri Baraka twist. “Let me hear one of yours.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, flustered. “My stuff is old, and morbid. I was in a bad mood for four years in high school. But feel free to share one of yours.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  “We have a spiritual poetry night at our church,” she said. “Second Thursday of the month. This Thursday. You should check it out. Some of it is really deep.”

  “So, is church a big thing for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you one of those people who have to go to church every Sunday or else they think they’re going to fry forever?”

  “No. I go because I need it. Like some people need to smoke because they say it calms their nerves. God calms my nerves.”

  I took the implication and felt a need to defend myself. “I know smoking is a bad habit. I stopped for a year and a half and then I started up again this year. I’m down to one cigarette a day.”

  “You smoked two that first night.”

  I laughed, remembering. “I was nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like crowds.”

  The guitar stopped but the woman was still moaning the last line: “Why don’t you love me, hate me, love me, hate me, like you used to?”

  I looked at Eva, who rolled her eyes as if to say, “Whatever.” We clapped politely along with everyone else. I started to tell her she was the first woman I had ever invited here but I caught myself. I had to remind myself this wasn’t really a date. After all, I didn’t bring her; we had agreed to meet. And it was only coffee.

  “Do your little brothers speak Spanish?” she asked.

  “Justin used to but after his father died, when he was ten, his mother said he refused to speak it. Some sort of posttraumatic stress event. What about your sons?”

  “It’s funny. My older one, Tony, can’t speak it but he understands it. Although he likes Spanish music. Eli, my youngest, can speak it but he hates Spanish music.”

  “Weird.” Now that I was closer to her, I could detect the slightest lilt of an accent that education and exposure to the business world had sharpened so that it was barely noticeable. But sometimes, when she said certain words, the ones that contained “t’s” but she pronounced like “th’s,” I could tell she hailed from somewhere else.

  “So what’s on your mind, Eva?” I asked.

  I could tell the question surprised her because she kept the coffee cup near her mouth, blowing into it. Without taking a sip, she repeated the question. “What’s on my mind?”

  “Yeah. What are you looking for?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not looking for anything.” It only felt like a little lie.

  “You called me.”

  “’Cause I needed that information for Justin.”

  “Yeah, and I gave it to you.” She was playing games, waiting for me to lay my cards on the table. I didn’t want to play games.

  “How old are you?” I asked,
changing the subject.

  “Forty,” she said without hesitation.

  I tried not to show my surprise. “You don’t look forty.”

  “I’m sorry, how does forty ‘look’?”

  “I’m thirty-six.”

  “You look thirty-six.”

  I laughed. “Touché.” I leaned closer to the table, to her. I could smell the rose body oil as I tried my best to maintain eye contact but her eyes were so intense it was difficult, and a couple of times I had to look away. “Look, I’m going to come out straight ’cause I’m too old for games. I think we’re both too old for games. It’s been a while since I’ve had female companionship. And I thought we … kind of connected.” There I said it.

  “So, you want a companion? You want to be friends? Pals? Acquaintances? What?”

  Now I was caught off guard, unable to answer.

  She continued: “You want to go out to dinner every once in a while, or just coffee? Movies?” She shook her head from side to side and gesticulated with her hands, prompting me for an answer. Why did I have to be the one to bring it up?

  But then she smiled, and I had to smile, too. It was a slight, teasing smile, but with those lips it spread across her face. We both laughed, the ice slowly melting.

  “You should come to my church,” she said.

  Back to uncomfortable topics. I scratched my neck. “Church really isn’t my scene.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s hard for me to sit through three-hour-long services. Plus, I don’t like being yelled at and told I’m a sinner.”

  “You’ll like my pastor. He’s not a screamer. He’s very calming … cool. Our church is multicultural but our pastor’s Black.”

  “Oh, so you think I’ll like him ’cause he’s Black?”

  “Stop being so paranoid. I only meant that unlike other churches where the congregation is one extreme or the other, ours is mixed.”

  “Don’t you think it’s possible to get spiritual enrichment without attending church?”

  “Yes, I guess. But you get so much more from fellowshipping.”

  “I don’t know. All I remember is people debating too much about the meanings of scriptures. It’s open to interpretation. Ten preachers could read a passage and you’d get ten different interpretations.” She started to speak but I cut her off politely, holding up my hand. “Take our namesakes, Adam and Eve. Correct me if I’m wrong, but there is nothing in Genesis that says God married them, it says he created a ‘help mate’ for Adam. The vows that are recited at marriage ceremonies are man-made.”

  “So you don’t believe in marriage?”

  “No, what I’m saying is, the relationship between the man and the woman should be emphasized, rather than the ritual, the whole reciting-of-the-vows, and how it looks to other people. It just seems to me that people put more into the wedding than they do the marriage. If a man and a woman who, quote, live together in sin, unquote, are committed to each other and they respect, trust each other, why do they need to go through the motions with a minister? Why is their relationship less blessed than a man and a woman who are married in church and aren’t committed to each other at all? That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You need to come to Bible class and pose that question to the teacher,” she answered. “He can probably answer it better than I can.”

  “We’ll see,” I told her, not really committing to anything.

  The India.Arie wannabe began strumming her guitar again. This time, I rolled my eyes, and Eva patted my hand. The hairs on my hand stood up, all the way up my arm. “Be nice. She’s okay.”

  “So who is Rashid?” I asked casually, as I recalled their playful interaction at the college fair. I didn’t want to sound like it mattered if they had something going.

  “I told you. He’s the director—”

  “No. I mean, to you.”

  “We’re coworkers, work-friends. He’s going through a lot now, you know, being Muslim in a Christian world.”

  “Hmmm. You want another coffee?”

  “I’m all coffeed out,” she said, opening her purse.

  I held up my hand. “I got this.”

  “I’ll pay for mine, thanks.”

  “You can get it next time. Okay?”

  Her right eyebrow went up and I read her look: Who said there’s going to be a next time? “I’ll leave the tip,” she insisted.

  “Fine,” I said, conceding defeat. Then I noticed that the tip she left amounted to the cost of her two cups of coffee. The woman was covering her bases like a seasoned player. Very impressive.

  At the counter, I introduced Eva to Caswanna, who ran the coffee and pastry part of the business, and her husband, Hassan, who operated the bookstore. They both gushed on the coincidence of our names. “You’re kidding?” Hassan said. “How bizarre!” Caswanna cried. I knew then our being together would be a problem. But then I remembered, this wasn’t a date; it was only coffee.

  We strolled down Milwaukee to where Eva had parked her car. Even though the sun was setting, the temperature was intolerably hot, but she looked like she wasn’t busting a sweat in her outfit. I, on the other hand, was sweating all over. The coffee had only made it worse.

  “Can I ask you a personal question without you getting offended?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said bravely, knowing she was capable of asking anything.

  “Are you … were you a drug addict?”

  I chuckled. “No.”

  We walked on and I noticed that she kept looking at me as if she were waiting for an explanation, like she deserved one. For a hot second, I thought about whether she needed to know my personal business. My cancer, like religion, wasn’t something I brought up in casual conversation. I wasn’t like her, discussing her sexual habits, or lack thereof, with total strangers.

  “I don’t like talking about my … scars. With strangers. No offense.”

  It took her a couple of seconds to recall that they were the same words she had initially said to me about her writing. She laughed. “Oka-a-ay Touché.”

  “Does it matter?” I asked. “Whether I was a drug addict?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like being around people who mess with drugs, or drink.”

  “But I told you I wasn’t.”

  “Then why … how come …”

  “I had cancer awhile back. Apparently, I have what they call ‘bad veins.’ They collapse very easily. The scars are from the IVs for chemo,” I explained finally, deciding to let her off the hook. I pulled down my shirt collar to reveal the scar near my collar bone. “They put in a central line when my veins kept blowing.”

  The look on her face should have been enough vindication for me. Her eyes were big with shock as she was embarrassed into silence. It was a lot of information to swallow, especially since I had given it to her matter-of-factly, as if I were describing how to put on a pair of pants.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was just above a whisper. “Are you okay now?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said sarcastically. “Good as new.”

  She looked down at her hands, which were interlocked in front of her, as we walked the next block without talking. I waited for her to ask me what kind of cancer I had, which was usually the next question.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said nonchalantly. “I’m not going to die or anything like that. At least not anytime soon.”

  We fell silent as we walked past a Burger King and Popeye’s Chicken interspersed with an Italian bistro and a tapa bar. She kept nervously locking and unlocking her fingers at waist level, probably trying to decide whether it was appropriate to ask more questions or just keep quiet. I decided for her.

  “Anyway, the chemo’s supposed to cause your hair to fall out, but I was one of the lucky ones I guess. Kinky roots, ya know. I felt like Samson, like my strength is in my hair. As long as I don’t cut my
hair, the cancer won’t come back.”

  “So, is that when you stopped praying? When you got cancer?”

  “I don’t remember when it was, exactly.”

  “Why do you smoke if you had cancer?”

  “Why do people continue to have sex after they’ve had an STD? Why do people still sin after they’ve been saved? It’s hard to be good. I am trying to quit. There are days I don’t smoke at all. I’m sure there’s something you do that you wish you could stop. Like picking your nose or biting your toenails.”

  She laughed and I was glad I was able to lighten the mood.

  “I do not pick my nose,” she said.

  “But you bite your toenails.”

  “No.” She held up her hands. “I do bite my fingernails.”

  “You see?”

  “Biting your nails isn’t dangerous to your health.”

  “It could be. You have dirt under your nails and when you put your nails in your mouth, it goes down into your stomach—”

  “Okay, you win. But seriously, if you want to quit, I can say a prayer for you.”

  “Are you serious?” I smiled, and started to laugh, but then I realized she was being earnest.

  “Yes, I am.” She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Right here?” I looked around uncomfortably, as people walked around us, glancing over their shoulders to see what we were going to do. But we were in Wicker Park, the home of eccentrics and freaks, so someone praying in the middle of the sidewalk was not an oddity.

  She stepped into the nearest doorway and I had no choice but to follow. She slipped her hands into mine and the softness of her touch gave me chills. She closed her eyes, her lips moving as she prayed silently. I tried to be receptive of her intent even though I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Feeling slightly dizzy and weak, I tried not to squirm as sweat trickled from my temples, neck, and down my back. I thought maybe it was her touch, maybe it was the prayer, maybe it was just a combination of the heat and coffee. Maybe.