Taiye tried to control her breathing. She wanted to slow down her inhalations, feel the cold air enter her lungs, let it out slowly, but she couldn’t seem to grasp the air. She choked, and Salomé moved to hold her, wound her arms tight around her.
Taiye continued, despite the tightening in her throat. “I have these memories. They are muddy, but sometimes I get these glimpses. I think I heard him—” her breathing bypassed her attempts at control and picked up a panicked pace.
“I think I heard him raping her.” She tried to talk through hyperventilation, stuttered, “I-I, I think I used to sleepwalk and hear it, but I swear …” She sobbed with her eyes closed, her chest heaving, her face contorted in desperation. Deep sinking devastation wound tight in her gut. “I swear I didn’t remember. I barely remember now, but I think I knew … somewhere inside inside, I think I knew. Am I not truly sickening?”
Salomé looked at Taiye, stunned.
“This is too much,” Taiye said suddenly, barely able to catch her breath. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s too much.” She started to untangle herself from Salomé, to climb out of bed, to leave.
“No, don’t go,” Salomé pleaded. “It’s not too much. Will you please sit down?”
Taiye obeyed, still struggling to breathe.
“May I hold you again?”
Taiye nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” She held Taiye’s clammy, shaking hands in her own. “He—”
“I can’t catch my breath,” Taiye wheezed.
“I think you’re having an anxiety attack.” Salomé’s voice was gentle. “Breathe with me, okay?” She took a slow, exaggerated breath, and Taiye mimicked her. Then slowly let it out. They inhaled and exhaled in sync until Taiye calmed down.
“I’m so sorry, Salomé,” she said, as shame flooded her chest.
“You have no reason to apologize.” Salomé stroked her face. “I’m so sorry that happened. My heart hurts for you. It’s not your fault. You know that, right?”
But Taiye was silent.
THE MORNING THAT FOLLOWED OFFERED A PROMISE OF LIGHTNESS. The early sun sent soft rays filtering through the curtains of Salomé’s bedroom and made luminescent pools of light on the white covers. Taiye woke from dreamless sleep while Salomé still snored loudly. She pulled on her shirt and tiptoed to the kitchen, taking the empty plate with her. She cleared the sink and loaded the dishwasher, wiped the stew stains off the stove, scraped the burnt mushrooms and onions into a compost bucket under the sink, and wiped down the counter. The electric kettle refused to switch on, so she set a small pot of water on the stove to boil, and then searched the cupboards for tea. Salomé’s tea collection was impressive. She had bags and boxes of loose-leaf English breakfast, South African rooibos, lemongrass, lemon verbena, herbal blends that Taiye didn’t recognize, licorice root, valerian root. Most of them with labels from the tea shop where they’d first seen each other. Taiye selected a matcha, and with a quick peek in the fridge, found some coconut milk. A rummage through the cutlery drawer proved fruitful: she found a small whisk and was frothing bright green matcha in hot water and coconut milk, just as a groggy and topless Salomé joined her in the kitchen.
“Hey,” she said. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” Taiye smiled and continued to whisk.
Salomé looked at the clock above the stove: 6:33. “Why are we up so early?”
Taiye smiled. “Matcha?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have some honey?”
“Yes.” She fetched a small jar of dark honey from the cupboard, placed it beside Taiye, and kissed her cheek. “I don’t teach until later this afternoon, so if you’re not busy, I’d like to show you this breakfast spot I really like.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
“Great.” She stretched and yawned loudly, arching her back in a deep bend.
“Here you go.” Taiye handed her a frothy cup of hot matcha.
“Thank you.”
“So, I feel embarrassed about last night. I apologize for getting intense.” Taiye took a sip, licked green foam off her upper lip, and averted her gaze to the close-grained wooden countertop.
“I hear your apology, but I don’t accept it.” Salomé kept her gaze steady on Taiye’s face—she still had sleep crust in the corners of her eyes. Salomé dusted it off and continued. “Only because you have nothing to apologize for. I understand why you feel vulnerable, and I empathize. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“It was a lot.”
“Sure, but you’re welcome to share a lot with me.”
Taiye nodded. “I don’t think I want to talk to you about that for a bit.”
“Fair enough.”
“It’s all good. But hey, remember what we did before I cried on you and had a panic attack?”
“Yeah, that was dope.”
“It was. Let’s do that again.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“I am.”
“It’s working.”
THEY PAID A VISIT TO THE BEES ON THEIR WAY TO BREAKFAST. Salomé and Hachim kept a short Langstroth hive, painted in green and yellow stripes, sitting on a frame of wood and cement blocks. It stood in the corner of their garden, in a stream of sunshine dappled by the leaves of mature poplar and maple trees that populated the backyard.
“Let’s see what they’re up to.” Salomé led the way through the screen door. “They get real busy minding their business, trying to find that nectar.”
“That’s how I’m trying to be,” Taiye joked.
“They zip into the sky and travel about five kilometres in either direction to get all that good good nectar and pollen.” She placed a hand on the flat roof of the hive.
“You’re so lucky!”
“Yeah, I know.” Salomé smiled wide. “We got a complaint a couple weeks ago, but they can suck my dick.”
They laughed all the way out of the backyard and into Salomé’s car.
The breakfast spot that Salomé liked was a hole in the wall near Alderney Landing in Dartmouth, a Greek diner that served large portions for cheap without skimping on flavour. It was one of her favourite places, and Salomé shared it only with friends and lovers she intended to keep. And she very much intended to keep Taiye; she told her as much over a platter of buttered toast, Loukaniko sausage, falafel, eggs, tomatoes, and beans.
“I, um, I’d like to keep doing this,” she said, “um, with you … if you’re into it?”
Taiye chewed slowly, relishing Salomé’s shyness. “Even after my freak-out last night?”
“Yeah, even after you expressed emotions like any other human being would.”
Taiye laughed at this, took another bite.
“No pressure at all,” Salomé continued. “I’m just having a great time, and I wanted to say it out loud.”
“That you’re having a great time?”
“Hey, stop being a dick.” Salomé took Taiye’s free hand. “I’m trying to say that it’s been some time now, and I keep liking you more.”
“Your lover in Montreal,” Taiye said. “What’s her name?”
Salomé didn’t flinch. “Her name is Angharad.”
“What’s it like between you two?”
“It’s good, we’ve known each other a long time.”
“Why non-monogamy?”
“Monogamy hasn’t worked for me.”
“What would it look like, you and me?”
“Like this,” Salomé said, taking a sip of her coffee. “With the freedom to see whoever else you’d like, well, um, except my students or colleagues.”
“That’s your only boundary?”
“My only non-negotiables, yeah.”
“Non-negotiables …”
“What would yours be?”
“Honesty.”
“Well, that’s a given.”
“I like you.”
“I know.”
“I’d like to keep se
eing you.”
Salomé smiled and relaxed into her chair.
Later that night, back in the quiet of her place, Taiye turned to Our Lady and confided, “I don’t think I’ll be the same.”
After her?
“Yes,” she replied, wishing there would be no after.
BUT THERE IS ALWAYS AN AFTER, ISN’T THERE?
For the better part of a year, Taiye and Salomé, they had this real good love, though they rarely named it that. Instead, they said things like:
I’ve been thinking about you, missing you.
Did you eat yet? I brought you food.
How is your heart? How is your body?
How can I make your day better?
Let me help. Let me take that for you.
It was a salve for both their wounds, a tender balance between their respective demons.
So what happened to change it?
Taiye’s least-favourite vice, the brittle glass beast that is Envy, she reared her fragile head when Salomé spent a couple of weeks in Montreal, presenting at a decolonial Black feminist conference, and visiting Angharad. And Taiye, instead of tending to this particularly unyielding creature of her own concoction, scorned and suppressed it, until it imploded.
The morning before Salomé flew to Montreal, while she and Taiye unfolded fresh sheets to make the bed, she asked, “You want to check in about my trip?”
“Why are you asking?”
“I just want to know how I can take care of you while I’m—”
“While you’re taking care of Angharad?”
“Well,” she shrugged, “I guess that’s not an inaccurate interpretation. So … um, is there … how are you feeling?”
“What does her name mean?”
“Angharad?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sure. It’s Welsh, I think.”
“She’s white?”
“Her dad is, yeah. Her mother is Black, Scotian from Preston.”
“What does she do?”
“She works as a veterinary assistant. What do you really want to know, Taiye?”
“What’s she like?”
“A bit like you, actually. Intense, funny.”
“I don’t think of myself as funny.”
“Well, you are, babe.” Pulling Taiye with her, Salomé collapsed onto the freshly made bed.
Taiye nestled into Salomé, ignoring Our Lady’s suggestion that she simply tell her: I feel jealous. This is new for me. She closed her eyes and basked in the affection of Salomé’s warm hand, stroking her cheek.
The first week of Salomé’s absence stretched near-infinite to Taiye. Restlessness found her fretting at the thought of being forgotten. Surely, she was only a momentary distraction from whatever else Salomé had going on with that Angharad woman, not unlike Taiye’s own convenient trysts with hapless lovers who had inevitably wanted more than she was willing to offer. Surely the proverbial tables had taken a swift one-eighty, and Taiye had become the hapless, pining lover. It didn’t help that word from Salomé was scarce and slow to come. Intellectually, Taiye understood—she knew the rules of the game and, in fact, had enough in her own life to fill the space of Salomé’s absence. But emotionally, she wrestled with the unwieldy jaw of her envy.
Taiye lost the fight and snooped through Salomé’s social media profiles in search of photos of Angharad. Seeing the woman’s round face, framed by a mass of dark curls falling on ample copper-coloured shoulders, the many pictures of her in magenta scrubs with bandaged animals, a handful with Salomé smiling brightly at the camera, arm in arm, kiss pressed into cheek, she understood what drew them to each other. Believing that she couldn’t compete with their history—thinking, erroneously, that there was any need for competition—she slammed her laptop screen down in a flash of jealous anger.
As a distraction, she turned to an old itch. She pulled up her Tinder profile, swiped right and left, right and left. Then there was a familiar face on her screen, a right swipe, an immediate match, quick conversation, plans to meet up the following night.
With flickering tea candles that cast sultry dancing shadows against the dark walls, and twinkling fairy lights draped high and reflecting off the stained glass of the atrium, Cloud Oyster bar set an alluring ambience for a first date. Taiye walked in with the intimate scent of guilt dusting her shoulders. Telling Our Lady that she was doing nothing wrong, she settled into a seat at the bar, ordered a fragrant gin martini with sweet vermouth, and waited for her date.
Taiye dating—as in the verb—was all good. In fact, Salomé would likely have been thrilled that she was venturing outside of their relationship for sex or companionship or whatever. Taiye’s date—the noun—was a whole other issue. She walked in all high femme with thigh-high stockings and platform Mary Janes. They had a few too many drinks, made small talk—Taiye’s date did much of the talking—and shared a charcuterie board before going back to her date’s place.
“Your family know about you?” her date asked, as they stumbled through her front door.
“What about me?”
“That you’re, like, queer.”
“I don’t think that they’re super concerned with who I’m sleeping with.”
“You know what I mean, though. You’re Nigerian as well, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, like, are they cool with it?”
“I’d rather not talk about my family right now …”
“Okay, okay.” She kissed a sloppy trail from Taiye’s lips down her neck to her shoulders as she unbuttoned her shirt. “I normally go for more masculine types. You’re, like, softer. Soft butch? Futch?”
“Funke, I—”
“Banke,” she corrected.
“Sorry, Banke. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Take your top off.”
Banke obliged. “You know, like, how do you identify?”
“I don’t know, girl. I’m a human animal who’s just trying to fuck you right now. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely.” Banke smiled wide, utterly delighted. “You definitely have a toppy vibe.”
Taiye slurred, “You’re just talking a lot. I have to … direct the situation.”
“Ugh, yes, direct me.”
“Skirt off.”
Banke came with a high-pitched moan. She started to return the favour, but Taiye apologized and hurried out of her place, awash in the hollow feeling of having just broken something priceless.
“BANKE?” Salomé asked. “My new TA?”
“Y-yes,” Taiye stuttered.
Salomé nodded and got up to leave. She’d driven straight from the airport to Taiye’s place, eager to hold her. And Taiye had met her at the door with an expression that made her heart sink.
“Please, Salomé, wait, I’m sorry.” Taiye’s words sounded empty even to her own ears.
“Were you unhappy with me, Taiye, with us?” Salomé paused but didn’t sit. She shook her head, her eyebrows knotted tight on her forehead. “Because I’m so happy—I mean … I was.”
“I am. I just …”
“And you knew, right?”
Taiye wanted to lie, but she nodded. She had known. Not at first, but pretty soon into the date, she knew.
“Why?”
“I didn’t mean to … I don’t know.”
“But I think you do, Taiye.” Salomé clasped her hands tight, her voice strained. “I made my boundaries clear.”
“I know.” Taiye felt something bubble in her chest, and she choked. “I didn’t mean it. I was just …”
“What?” Salomé’s voice took on a sharp edge. “You were just what?”
“I’m sorry, I was just … you were with Angharad.”
“Fuck.” Salomé collapsed back into the couch. “That’s what this is about? You lashed out because you were jealous?”
Taiye couldn’t bring herself to answer. The bubbling in her chest grew vigorous.
“You said you were cool with non-monogamy … I thought we had something
really good. I … I’m so in love with you, Taiye.”
“I am, and we do,” Taiye said weakly. “I’m so sorry, Salomé, plea—”
Salomé inhaled and exhaled slowly, deliberately. Then, as calmly as she could manage, she said, “You know, I, um, I know where you are … I know this place, I’ve been there. I can’t go back there … put my sobriety on the line like that. A decade ago, I would be diving right into … you, even after this.” Her voice was ragged, and she wiped away her tears quickly. “But I have Hachim now, I can’t risk it.” She shook her head. “I have to go.”
Kehinde
IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS since the tests confirmed that I am pregnant. I smile at my reflection, and she smiles back at me. My body is a home. It is a tool. A collection of intelligent components, each with a unique function, the overall goal to grow this life inside of me and bring it forth safely. Unlike Taiye, who just grew taller and filled out with small breasts and slightly fuller hips at puberty, I was driven to intense negotiations with my body when my breasts ballooned, my hips followed suit, and Taiye and I couldn’t share clothes anymore. The abundance of my body was foreign to me, unfamiliar and frustrating. I feel like I’ve been trying to wrangle it into surrender ever since. No need to suck in my belly now, because someone lives in there. I can be a good home. I can treat my body as any good host would treat their home. I can be a good host.
Listen, I know my body is more than that, more than a temple, more than a home for this fetus growing inside me, but it helps to think of it this way. To consider it as more than the flesh casing that attracted that disgusting man. It has taken me so long to understand that my breasts are not to blame for what happened. So, yes, I know that I am more than my body, and my body is more than a host, but just let me be good the way I can be for this baby.
Farouq is thrilled about the pregnancy. He cried and insisted on a celebration.
I haven’t mentioned how we met. It was at Satsuma, an artist-run centre that I joined after Wolfie moved to Paris. I volunteered twice a week, to bartend, set up and clean up after events, or run the door. It was early autumn, and the centre was showcasing the work of five photographers as part of the city’s photography festival. The director made an error in her welcome email to the artists that had them arrive to set up at the gallery at six a.m. instead of nine. After a frantic call from her, I rushed over to let them in, and I don’t think I could have possibly had a worse attitude. It wasn’t their fault they were early, but I was stuck on a painting—Taiye’s face continued to reveal itself when I tried to create my own image.
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