“Girl, what?” Salomé cut her eyes playfully at Taiye, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged her jacket off.
“The Soulquarians are Questlove—you know Questlove, yeah?”
Taiye nodded.
“So, um, Questlove, Bilal, Common,” she counted the names on her fingers and frowned, trying to remember, “J Dilla—rest in power—um, Mos Def, Erykah Badu, Roy Hargrove, D’Angelo … um, James Poyser, Q-Tip, Talib Kweli, and Pino Palladino.” She laughed on an exhale and clapped her palms together. “These brilliant, brilliant artists formed a neo-soul collective in the late nineties. They produced some of the sexiest, most provocative music to date, in my not-so-humble opinion.”
“Oh, my bad!”
“Your bad indeed.” Salomé placed a shy kiss on Taiye’s cheek, her mouth cold from the soda water she’d been drinking. “Bienvenue chez moi.” She smiled and attempted subtlety, as she looked Taiye up and down while sipping from her glass. “What would you like to drink?”
Salomé led Taiye from the narrow foyer into the spacious living room, which, except for the mess of Hachim’s schoolbooks strewn across the coffee table, was neat. The two black leather couches tucked in the corner of the room had small stacks of books piled at their feet. Taiye recognized Audre Lorde’s Zami, Patricia H. Collins’s Black Feminist Thought, Christina Sharpe’s In the Wake: On Blackness and Being.
“What do you have?” she asked.
Salomé looked into the fridge. “Water, tea, guava juice, soda water, and chocolate oat milk in a juice box.”
“Guava juice, please.”
“Ice?”
“No, thank you.” Taiye took in the warmly lit space: stainless-steel appliances, glass stovetop, solid butcher block kitchen island, heavy-laden pan rack above it. Pale coral walls covered in many framed photographs of Hachim in every stage of growth. Infant Hachim and Salomé; toddler Hachim and a round-faced light-skinned woman Taiye assumed was Jasmin; laughing images of people Taiye assumed were friends and family.
“Your place is lovely.”
“Thank you.” Salomé handed her a tall glass of cloudy pink juice. “We’ve lived here a while.”
“What am I smelling?”
“Do you like it?”
“Smells incredible.”
“Oh, good. It’s kimchi stew with pork belly.”
“Ooh, fancy,” Taiye teased. “You made it?”
“Um, yes, I definitely painstakingly made an order from Song’s Korean.” She laughed and scratched her head sheepishly. “I am cooking rice from scratch, though. In a rice cooker, but still.”
Taiye laughed with Salomé. “But still, well done.”
“And, and, I got some crostini and was just about to caramelize some onions and mushrooms for appies, because we’re fancy bitches.”
“Can I help?”
“Absolutely not.” Salomé pointed at a padded bar stool at the kitchen island. “You get cozy over there and tell me about your day—um, in one second.” She disappeared into the pantry beside the fridge and returned with two red onions and a small paper bag of cremini mushrooms. She scooped softened coconut oil into a red plastic measuring cup, and then scraped some of that into a cast-iron skillet.
“My day was uneventful,” Taiye said, as Salomé started to peel the papery skins off the onions. “I was in class this morning, I spoke to my mother, I heard back from a bakery job, and I have an interview next week.”
“Well done! Where is this?”
“A bakery on Quinpool. Bird’s Nest, or Birdie, something bird related.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I think I have a good shot. It’s a part-time baker position. They have their own recipes, so pretty straightforward.”
“I hope you get it, if you want it.”
“I do.” Taiye curved her back in a stretch.
Salomé scraped the roughly chopped onion, garlic, and mushrooms from the cutting board into the skillet on the stove. The oil wasn’t hot enough, but Taiye kept this observation to herself. Instead, she watched Salomé wash her hands and wipe them on the front of her black jeans.
“What are you smiling at?” Salomé asked when she turned around.
“You.” Taiye couldn’t help her smile if she tried; her lips were doing whatever they wanted. “Come here.”
Salomé walked right into an open-mouthed kiss. She sighed and sank into it, just as the deep bass began its thrumming on D’Angelo’s “Shit, Damn, Motherfucker.” She pulled away halfway through the second chorus.
“You okay?” Taiye asked.
“I feel, um, I feel a bit nervous,” Salomé confessed, her lips brushing Taiye’s.
“Me too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking of all the things I’d like to do to you,” Salomé said, with charged frankness. “With you.”
“Like what? Tell me.”
“I’d rather show. May I?”
“Please.”
“Get up and turn around.” From behind, Salomé unzipped Taiye’s plaid trousers and slid a hand past the band of her underwear. She pressed her body against Taiye’s back, kissing her neck and working her fingers until soft moans escaped her.
Onions and mushrooms sizzled in the cast-iron skillet on the other side of the kitchen island. Taiye thought it was time for some salt and maybe some of those chipotle pepper flakes, but the thought lost traction. She reached a hand under her shirt to squeeze her breasts. The stew smelled incredible; the rice was fragrant, like basmati or jasmine. She sank into her body, into the delicious whorls Salomé’s slow fingers traced inside her underwear.
Salomé’s breath warmed Taiye’s ear. “I want to fuck you so bad, Taiye.”
“Yes?”
“Your arms—rest your arms against the counter,” Salomé commanded, and as Taiye obeyed, Salomé pulled her trousers down urgently, slipped her fingers inside Taiye and thrust, encouraged by her eager yeses.
Taiye could have lived there forever—the air thick with her moans and Salomé’s heavy breathing and the aroma of delicious things. The island shook with the force of their rocking. Salomé moved her free hand from its position on Taiye’s shoulder; clumsily, she dipped it into the measuring cup of coconut oil that would eventually fall off the island and clank loud against the floor tiles. She smeared the oil on Taiye and carried on, thoroughly aroused by the deep hunger of Taiye’s moaning. And Taiye was where she liked to be, on the exquisite brink of climax; she could gorge on this, on and on—but the onions were starting to burn, so she rubbed herself, let herself come, and collapsed on the counter.
“Oh shit.” Salomé rushed to turn off the stove. “Well, that’s gone.” She covered the skillet and slid it off the burner. “Sorry about that.” She returned to Taiye.
“Don’t apologize,” Taiye said, still dazed. She pulled her trousers up and dragged Salomé by the arm toward her, saying, “Few things smell as good as frying onions.”
“You should read this sweet essay on onions and faith,” Salomé said, and fell into another kiss.
“Onions and faith?”
“Yeah, it’s called ‘The Holy Onion,’ or something like that … and I have no business talking about essays right now.”
“You really don’t.” Shaking her head, Taiye reached her hands to feel the dampness between Salomé’s denim-clad thighs. “I’m into how wet you are right now.” She smiled.
“Yeah, that was hot for me.”
“I didn’t want it to end.” Taiye exhaled loudly.
“I know the feeling.” Salomé pulled her T-shirt shirt off, tossed it aside, and took Taiye’s hand. “Let me show you the bedroom.”
AFTERWARD, THEY FINALLY ATE. In Salomé’s bed, an entangled pile of limbs and lips, sharing the same plate of rice and stew. Salomé had the smaller of the two bedrooms. There was a plush mattress dressed in white sheets sitting in a low frame across from the door, a desk and stool against the opposite wall, more
photographs, more books, a full-length mirror hanging on the door, and the musky fragrance of incense.
Taiye slurped. “This is so good.”
Salomé, her mouth full, nodded in agreement.
“Was it worth the wait?” Taiye asked.
“The stew or the sex? Because this stew is worth anything,” Salomé teased.
“Haha.”
“Yeah, totally. For you?”
“Mm-hmm.” Swallowing a mouthful of rice, Taiye asked, “Why was it important to slow down? On sex, I mean.”
“Um.” Salomé wiped sauce from her chin with the back of her hand. “I, um, I’m in recovery, yeah, like I’m an addict. So even though I’ve been sober for a while, I have to be careful. And—this is just for me, I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience—but I just have to be cautious about things that have been, um, like triggers or associations in the past. Or things that I enjoyed a lot while using, so, like sex and general recklessness … early in my sobriety even going out dancing was kind of scary.”
Taiye chewed on her bottom lip and nodded.
“Was that too real?”
“No such thing.” Taiye shook her head. “How do you stay sober?”
“I’m in one of those anonymous twelve-step programs.” Salomé winked. “I go twice a week, more on the weeks I don’t have Hachim.”
“That works?”
“For me, yeah, but it’s one part of, like, a larger wellness practice. Like I try to stay busy, especially when I don’t have Hachim. Idleness is my kryptonite. And I try to end the day exhausted to keep my mind from wandering at night, so I run. Um … I meditate, as well, that helps a lot.”
“What kind of meditation?”
“Mindful breathing, sometimes loving-kindness meditation. Do you meditate?”
“No, I don’t know too much about any of that.”
“I might have a book you can borrow, if you’d like?”
“I’d like, thank you.”
“For sure.”
“Salomé, you’re really interesting.”
“I’m really not.” She smiled, both embarrassed and elated by Taiye’s gaze. “I’ve just lived a decade longer.”
“That’s not it; don’t be patronizing.”
“My bad.” Salomé took Taiye’s hand. “I like that you find me interesting.
I find you really interesting, too. And mysterious.”
Taiye laughed. “No mystery here.”
“No, really, I know very little about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Mmm, tell me about your family.”
“Oof.” Taiye collapsed backward into the bed. “My family is my sister and our mother.”
“Your father?”
“He died when we were small.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ça arrive.”
“French for …?”
“It happens.”
“How did your father pass?”
Taiye considered how honestly she should respond to the question. “He was killed. Robbed and killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. He was … I remember him to be quite sweet. You?”
“Me?”
“Your family?”
“You didn’t finish telling me about yours!”
“What else would you like to know?”
“What’s your mother like?”
“She’s … tender. And unwell.”
“Yeah?”
“Salomé.”
“I like the way you say my name.”
“Your turn.”
“Okay, what do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Ha!”
“Tell me.” Taiye held her gaze and smiled that lopsided smile that made it difficult for Salomé to deny her.
“Um, well, I was adopted,” Salomé said as she put their plate—licked clean—away at the foot of the bed and fell under the covers beside Taiye. “It was a closed adoption, so I don’t know my birth family.” She placed her head on Taiye’s chest and closed her eyes.
“Did you ever try to find them?”
“Yes, in my early twenties. I had this fantasy that everything about me would make sense when I met them, but I couldn’t find them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all good. Everything is on purpose.”
“What’s your adoptive family like?”
“They’re very lovely people. Deeply prejudiced, but lovely.”
“White?”
“Yeah.”
“Racist?”
“Inherently, but, you know, the well-meaning kind.” She laughed. “Damn.”
“No, I had a charming childhood. My parents adopted a whole brood of Black and brown kids and raised us on a gorgeous farm in Upstate New York. It was mostly a good time.”
“Sounds very sweet and vaguely culty,” Taiye joked.
“It was a little bit, yeah. We were heavily involved in the Mormon Church. We were kind of the poster family …”
“Are you close to them?”
“I’m in contact with two of my siblings, close to one, but that’s it.”
“How come?”
“Um … I kind of, I got cut out of the church, and … yeah.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, it was, um, it was a good thing, actually. I was always a bit militant.” She laughed. “I’m sure my parents saw it coming.”
“What happened?”
“It was a long process of questioning. I started getting really interested in learning about my Blackness early on, so as soon as I turned nineteen, I applied for and got my call to serve, um, which is like a call to become a missionary. I went to Haiti, met a woman, you know how it goes.”
“So, you fell in love and walked away from your faith?”
“A little bit.” She chuckled. “It was a bit more drawn out than that, but at the end of the day, my companions reported what happened, which was actually very little. Oh man, my attraction to her was just undeniable. Um … but, yeah, we held hands and kissed once, and my companion saw and rightfully clocked that it wasn’t terribly righteous.”
“Righteous,” Taiye echoed.
“Yeah, so it was back to Palmyra.”
“Palmyra?”
“Yeah, that’s the name of the town where I grew up. I denied it, of course, but my parents begged me to tell the truth, promised that it wouldn’t matter, so I told them.”
“What did you tell them?” “Just that I’d always known that I was queer, and had been prepared to put it away, but meeting this woman who was Black and queer, and liked me back, um, I couldn’t ignore that.”
“What did they say?”
“They were devastated. They’re devout, and they’d done everything right by the church, and here I was, throwing a wrench into their whole situation.”
“They disowned you?”
“Not quite. Sort of. They didn’t have much of choice, I don’t think. I agreed to conversion therapy, but after the first few sessions, I refused. I couldn’t … it was sick. I told my family I wouldn’t continue, and I knew I had to leave them. They were never cruel, but we didn’t stay in touch after I left.”
“I’m sorry, Salomé.” Taiye stroked her face, traced her fingers along the edge of her jaw.
“It’s all good. It’s been so long, and when I got sober and pregnant, I reconnected with my older sister, and have slowly been reconnecting with one of my older brothers who I suspect is closeted, so it’s not entirely sad.”
“What happened with the Haitian girl?”
“Oh, we reconnected after I left home and figured out social media, but we just stayed friends. She’s married now, lives in Oakland.”
They lay together in silence for a long moment. The quiet was soothing. Taiye held Salomé tight, rubbed firm circles on her back, kissed her forehead. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” she said.
“Thank you for listenin
g.” Salomé kissed Taiye’s knuckles. “It was a lot, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’ve been officially Canadian for six years, it’s my patriotic duty to apologize for everything all the time.”
“You’re a patriot.”
“I am,” she said in a yawn. “Are you out to your family?”
“I don’t really talk to my mother about that.”
“And your sister?”
“She doesn’t really talk to me.” Taiye’s voice quavered. “So there hasn’t been much of an opportunity.”
“What’s she like? I mean, as kids, what were you two like?”
“We’re identical, you know, well, we were. I haven’t seen her face-to-face in a while.”
“I don’t think you stop being identical.” Salomé laughed.
“I guess not. She’s a bit bigger than me, like fleshier. Our mother used to tease her about it, just as a joke, but it really got to her. She’s beautiful.”
“Very modest of you,” she teased.
“No,” Taiye chuckled, “I didn’t mean it like that. She’s just brave, like more … just more. She used to look after me, speak for me when I couldn’t find words …”
“What does she do?”
“She’s an artist these days.” Taiye smiled. “I don’t have Facebook or anything, but sometimes I look her up. I found her portfolio online. It’s funny because she never did art when we were younger, but our mother used to paint all the time.” She shook her head. “Anyway, the stuff in Kehinde’s portfolio is really incredible, a bit similar to our mother’s, which makes sense.”
“Did something happen between you two? Sounds like you used to be close.”
“We were close when we were small.” Taiye closed her eyes and searched her mind, travelled back to their house in Lagos, to those nights.
“According to our mother, I started sleepwalking after our father died. She thought I was searching for him in my sleep, but, you know, she’s funny sometimes. We had an aunt, really just a distant relative who came to live with us. She came with her partner, this alcoholic guy we called Uncle Ernest. He was a real disgusting person. I couldn’t stand the sight of him. It’s like I could never really see his face, it just kept, like, shifting or flickering … I … we were small, like eleven or twelve, I’m not sure … I was under Kehinde’s bed, reading a book to her or something; the power was out. And he came into her room. I don’t think he knew I was there. He attacked her. He tried to rape her.”
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