Afraid to Love

by Leona Jackson

  “That's why it sucks that I know eight of my patients have died,” she said.

  “How many have lived?” I asked.

  “No one keeps count of that,” Cynthia said.

  “Well, maybe they should,” I grinned.

  My stomach was growling, but I pulled Cynthia into my arms anyway. My hunger for her was stronger than any I've ever felt for food. I kissed her neck and picked her up.

  “What are you doing?” she laughed.

  “I'm going to lay you down and make love to you until you're too giddy to think about work,” I said.

  “Oh, really?” she laughed, “That may take a while.”

  “I have all day,” I said, and laid her down gently on the bed.

  I kissed her again before I started to undress her. Piece by piece, I removed her clothing, revealing her beautiful ebony skin. I kissed each part of her body as I went along.

  Cynthia soon lay only in her peach thong smiling up at me. Its color against her skin made me draw in a sharp breath as my dick began to harden. I tucked my thumbs under the waistband and slowly slipped them down her legs and over her feet before tossing them aside with the rest of her discarded clothes.

  Cynthia parted her legs and ran her well-manicured fingers over her pussy. My heart thumped against my ribcage as I watched her touch herself and imagined what her slippery folds would feel like under my fingers and tongue.

  I laid between her legs and gently parted the lips and kissed her clit. I rolled my tongue over it and she shifted her weight. My tongue pressed against its tip and she let out a soft moan, making my prick twitch. I lapped at her juicy wetness and gently slid a finger inside of her. Her muscles contracted around me and she moaned.

  I continued worshiping her until my mind was consumed by my desire for her. I wanted to sink into her and never surface. I tried to pull away from her and sit up, but Cynthia put a hand on the back of my head. She wanted more. Grinning, I returned my attention to her juicy folds.

  Cynthia arched her back and entwined her fingers in my short hair.

  “Mark!” she gasped, and I knew I had brought her to climax.

  Suddenly, she grabbed my hand and pulled me on top of her. Our lips met in a hurried kiss and she wrapped her hand around my dick, squeezing it. My eyelids fluttered as she guided me into her body. I thrust deep into her and let out a groan of pleasure when her long fingernails sank into the flesh of my shoulders and slid down my back.

  Her brown eyes were locked to mine as I moved inside of her. Cynthia's soft folds held tightly to my throbbing member as it twitched. Her mouth met mine and I kissed her as I came.

  The act itself was over quickly because I was too ready and we were both too tired. I nuzzled my head into Cynthia's breasts and kissed one of her nipples. She gave a tired moan that let me know that she would want to go again after we got some sleep.

  “I love you,” I whispered to her.

  “Uh-huh,” she said and made some sleep little noise.

  She had never returned those three little words to me and every time she didn't it stung.

  I woke up and reached out for Cynthia, but her spot in the bed was cold. Sighing, I sat up and stretched. I hated when she left without telling me.

  “Mornin'!” Cynthia's voice reached my ears from some foggy place in the waking world.

  “Good morning,” I said, looking around for her.

  She was sitting in front of my laptop and I almost asked her what the hell she was doing. I'm a writer and that means my laptop is my life. I don't share it and no one is supposed to touch it or even look at it too hard.

  “What's up?” I asked, trying to not sound too alarmed.

  “Just sending an email,” she shrugged.

  “An email?” I asked.

  “To work,” she said.

  “I thought you were off tonight?” I asked.

  “I am, and after I finish this e-mail, I won't be going back,” she said.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “I can't do it anymore. I can't stand it, Mark!” she shouted.

  “Why are you shouting at me?” I asked.

  “I'm not!” she said. “It's just never going to work, Mark! I can't stand watching people die in the ER and I'm not going back to working with Sandra and all those white people who hate me!”

  “They don't hate you, Cynthia! Don't you see it's all in your fucking head?” I shouted.

  “You don't get it! You've never understood, and I've tried to tell you, Mark!” she yelled.

  “No, you don't get it, Cynthia!” I yelled, finally losing my cool.

  I knew I should have shut up, because it didn't matter what I said. This fight was going to be blamed on me.

  “I love you, damn it to hell! Cynthia, I love you, but I can't stand here and watch you throw everything away! No one is in your way but your damn self!” I yelled at her.

  My hands were shaking and I felt lightheaded. She had chosen to be blind! She had chosen to live her life in the dark. I had failed her!

  “Fuck off, Mark! Just fuck off!” she shouted. “I'm done! I'm done with the hospital and I'm done with you!” She dressed as she shouted at me. “You're never going to understand! Never! I've tried so fucking hard, Mark! Do you think I don't love you? I fucking love you! Alright, there you go, Mark! I love you, but it's just not going to work!”

  Cynthia stormed out, carrying her purse and her shoes under her arm. I slipped my boxers on and chased after her, but she ignored every plea I made. She wouldn't speak to me or even look at me as she got into her car and drove away.

  Feeling defeated, I went back to my apartment and did what I always did when the world was on the brink of destruction: I wrote. I wrote until the story was done and I printed it out without stopping to edit it. My agent expected to be the first to see it, but that honor wasn't destined to be hers. No, that honor was going to go to the woman who had just ripped my heart out and ate it.

  Chapter 9: Cynthia

  When I got home, I was pissed as hell. I wish I could say that I was pissed at Mark, but I was more pissed at myself. Why did I allow myself to get so close to him? How could I have been so stupid?

  I didn't send in my resignation letter, but over the next few weeks work became intolerable. I was arguing with my coworkers over every little thing. They put my every action under a microscope and nothing I did impressed them, not that I wanted to impress them. I just wanted them to leave me alone and let me do my damn job. I avoided any place that I might run into Mark and he didn't seem to be trying to find me either. For that I was thankful.

  Sometimes, when I sat in my big empty house eating, I missed him, but I told myself that it was only because I wasn't used to living alone. I went from living with Daddy to living in a dorm full of people. I didn't miss Mark. I just missed having people around, but where was I better off with the people? If the world was against you, it was better to be alone. At least then you knew where you stood.

  The doorbell sounded and startled me from my thoughts.

  “Who the hell is that?” I snapped, walking into the living room.

  I opened the door to see a rather tall mail man holding a large envelope under one arm and his signature tracker in his other hand.

  “I have a package for you,” he said with a grin.

  “I didn't order anything,” I said.

  “Well, someone sent you a present,” he chuckled. “Just sign here and you can find out.”

  I rolled my eyes and signed his computer. He handed me the package and I sighed. It didn't have a return address and it felt like a bunch of papers. It reminded me of the package I had received when Daddy died. I studied the envelope and remembered that day. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the memory.

  The envelope didn't have a return address so I almost didn't open it. I don't like surprises, especially when I don't know who they're from. Tentatively, I opened the envelope and looked inside. I was right, it was a stack of papers. I pulled them out and read t
he first page.

  The Ebony Heartbreak

  A story? I arched a brow. There was only one person I knew who was crazy enough to send me a story. I almost threw the pages into the trash, but decided against it. Even if it wasn't as good as his previous novels, it was something to spend the afternoon reading.

  I poured myself a glass of sweet tea and settled down into my favorite armchair. As I skimmed through most of the story, I slowly realized that Mark was writing about me, or at least that was my best guess. The book was longer and wordier than his previous work and described even the smallest thing in absolute detail.

  “Her lips quivered in suppressed laughter and joy before curving into two lipstick stained crescent moons. A smile! I had achieved it. I longed to caress her soft ebony jawline, to trail my fingers over her inviting flesh, but I knew better. A man does not touch an untamed animal no matter what temptations pulls at his primitive mind.

  “She observed me from under her long lashes, as a lioness watches her prey through the tall grasses of the African savannah. My heart pounded against my ribcage, shaking my soul.

  “Laughter bubbled over her crescent moon smile, sending a peculiar sensation through my flesh. I pushed my chair away from the table. The ebony beauty had more in common with a lioness than I had first thought. Her bubbling laughter was her roar. It sounded again, but this time its vibration traveled through the whole room.

  “My angry instincts took over and I stood up. What was happening beyond my comprehension at the time, but looking back she was warning me away. She was communicating her downfall and mine.

  ‘Leave!’ she was saying, ‘Leave! Get away from me! This drought will doom us both.’

  “I was thirsty for her kiss and she for a touch she had denied herself like some self-righteous guru. She abstained from what she wanted, but not out of loyalty or devotion. Her fast from the primal longing for a touch of a hand against one's flesh wasn't out of love for herself or a higher being, but out of fear. Fear of existence itself.

  “My ebony beauty wasn't much different than the lioness fearing an intruder in her territory. It wasn't arrogance or confidence that sent her chasing off the visiting tom that tried to court her, but fear. What would happen if she gave an inch to this invader? What would he take from her? Was there anything besides her own vessel left to her?

  “My body longed to wrap itself around the frightened ebony lioness and fill her well of being with joy, love, and yes, myself. I did not want to tame her. All animals that the creator put on the planet have the right to exist in their own way. Instead, I longed to merge with her for the brief time that our imperfect forms of incarnation would allow, to give to the ebony lioness a gift that would chase away her fear. I wanted to be the full moon and stars above her head, lighting the dark and chasing away the threats, but all my longing was for not. The ebony lioness was happy in the dark.”

  I blinked and reread the first few pages. Alyssa, the heroine, had laughed at the hero when he invited her to fly to Paris with him. I would have laughed at him as well, because there's only one type of woman a man takes to Paris when he goes on business. The whore, the Jezebel, the mistress, the friend with benefits.

  I read the pages again, focusing this time on his description of sex, or at least I thought he was talking about sex. I laughed as he compared it to the full moon and stars. What did sex have to do with being in the dark? I blinked and continued reading.

  “I'm not a whore,” my lioness growled at me.

  I forced myself back into my seat. It was difficult to suppress the instinct that made me want to flee her presence now that she had rejected me and all that I would offer. I didn't speak. I hadn't called her a whore. I hadn't asked her to come to Paris with me just so I could sink my loins into her cauldron of creation. Had she forgotten her own dreams or had her answer to my question been a lie?

  “You're not even going to answer me?” she growled and pawed at the table.

  Her well-manicured fingers transformed into claws and she dug them into the table.

  “Do you not remember?” I asked her.

  My voice was heavy from the lust and anger that mingled in my soul.

  “Remember what?” she spat at me.

  Her crescent moons had morphed into an angry snarl and she bared her teeth as she spoke the words. My pride was what she was chewing on.

  “Paris,” I whispered.

  My words echoed between, even though we were only parted by a twelve inches of air.

  “What about it?” she growled again and slapped the table with an angry paw.

  “You wanted to go. You told me when we went to the museum. You wanted to go the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. You wanted to look up at the moon over the water and lose yourself in the moment with a fiery kiss, embraced by all five elements.”

  I lay the manuscript aside and stared at the ceiling. Alyssa had said that. It was almost word for word what she told them after their date at the museum. Their conversation was naturally followed by the two falling into bed together. He had “kissed every inch of her ebony skin” and “sank his throbbing desire into her soft cauldron of life,” but what good was that in the long run. Every man had lips and a dick.

  “You shouldn't have told him,” I said. “Now he's using it against you.”

  I was angry at the man in the story, but I had to find out how it ended.

  “I did... but...” the ebony lioness said.

  Her words were stifled and I could tell she was unsure of herself. In response, my body tensed in case of another attack, but none came. There was no but me. I shook my head. For six years I had tracked the ebony lioness through her own territory. I had given it every ounce of strength and patience I possessed. I was growing weary of the hunt. What I had at first thought of as a chase had morphed into a different creature entirely. She hadn't wanted me to prove my worth nor my intent. The ebony lioness wanted to be left to the solitude of her life.

  I gently touched her face, caressing the soft flesh that was usually hidden by her hateful expression. She pulled away from my touch and tossed her hair. I leaned across the table and brushed my lips against hers before capturing her mouth. My tongue parted her soft lips and danced inside of her mouth for only a second before I broke the kiss, as she had broken me.

  I stood and walked away. She called my name, but I didn't look back. It isn't wise to turn your back to a cat of prey, but that's what I did. I left her with nothing but her own hide and life to gnaw on. I tucked my chewed up heart into my blazer pocket and looked up at the night sky. The moon was full and the stars were bright, but I knew the ebony lioness wouldn't see them.

  I walked away from the heartbreak of that night and I didn't look back. It wasn't my heart that was broken beyond repair, but hers. She had allowed the dangers of the Savannah to scare her into submission. She wasn't the proud lioness I had mistaken her for, and Paris was waiting for me. The familiar city would pull me out of her embrace and with hands more gentle than claws could ever be mend my heart, sewing every tear and cut, until it was whole and perfect again.

  I couldn't believe that Mark chose to end the story there. It was a romance! Romances were supposed to have happy endings! Didn't he know that? How could he just leave her like that? He should have tried harder.

  I read the words written in the white space at the bottom of the last page of the manuscript.

  “I almost called this story the horse that drowned, but thought better of the symbolism. Goodbye and good luck, my ebony heartbreak.”

  I had been right. I was his inspiration for the story. Angry tears ran down my cheeks as I searched the house for my shoes. I was going to tell Mark a thing or two! He didn't know me. He was just guessing at what I felt, and he was wrong! Just because I didn't want to see him again didn't mean I wanted to be alone! I did want to see him again! I just knew I shouldn't!

  I slipped my feet into my sandals and sighed as the cool soles soothed them. Since I started working at the hospital, my
feet were always aching. I balled my hands into fists when I realized I was crying. They were doing it to me again! They were keeping me down and out! Had Mark sent the story just to upset me? Just to rub it in? I stuffed the papers back into the envelope and tucked it under my arm.

  I drove to his place and banged on the door, but he didn't answer.

  “Damn it to hell, Mark!” I cried out in frustration.

  Next, I drove downtown to check the coffee shop. I didn't bother parking in the garage. Instead, I just pulled my car to a stop in front of the coffee shop and turned my emergency blinkers on.

  A cry of frustration escaped my lips when Mark wasn't inside. Where the hell was he? He was almost always here.

  “Do you know where Mark is?” I asked the cashier.

  “Who? Does he work here?” she asked while twirling her gum around her finger.

  “No, never mind!” I said and stomped outside.

  I got outside just in time to see a cop tucking a parking ticket under my windshield wiper. I groaned and snatched it off. I didn't know where else to look for Mark. Where the hell did writers hang out anyway?

  I took my car to the garage and walked a block until I found a bench to sit down on. I stomped my feet against the concrete and rested my head in my hands as I tried to get the tears to stop.

  “Cynthia?” a familiar voice said.

  I looked up and wanted to run. It was Heather. It was weird to see her in something that wasn't scrubs. She was wearing a long blue broom skirt and a pretty green top. Her graying hair was wrapped in its normal bun and her thin lips were stretched into their normal smile.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked, sitting down next to me.

  “I'm fine,” I lied.

  “Do you need help?” she asked.

  I almost told her no, but then remembered Mark's mother used to be a doctor at the hospital. Maybe she would know where to find him, like where his dad lived or something.

  “Do you know Mark?” I asked.

  “I know a Mark,” she nodded, “I worked with his mother for a long time.”

  “She died in a car accident?” I asked to make sure she was talking about the same Mark.