The dream changed only slightly each time I had it. At least once a week, the shores of a vast sea would wash into my mind and I found myself standing near the edge, longing to dip my toes into a cajoling surf. The problem was, I just couldn't seem to get there, though the barrier itself (unknown though it was) only seemed to fuel my desire to reach the water that much more. I needed to submerge myself, and I wanted the cool liquid to penetrate me -- to fill my orifices. I ached to be purified beyond a simple cleansing; I knew it would be so much more than that. It was a yearning for tranquility, a desire to languish in the utter silence that could only exist from being immersed in such a nurturing element, and it was what my soul urgently craved.
The first time I saw him, he was sitting at the rear entrance of a grocery store on one of those white, plastic deck chairs you get from Walmart. I happened to be driving past to cut through traffic when I noticed him, an idle cat most likely on a break from work. He was alone there, leaning back in his chair, legs leisurely sprawled, hands locked behind his head, elbows wide. His eyes were closed.
As I slowed down to drive over a speed bump, I turned to take a closer look. He must have felt me watching him because, at that moment, he cracked open his lids slightly and gazed directly back. He had the face of a pharaoh -- wide set eyes as dark as night, a sable brown complexion as smooth as the creamiest hot chocolate, and a mouth that told me he didn't care much for gawking white girls. His lips were parted, as if he were too tired to hold them closed, and when my face blushed a bright shade of pink, I though I saw the hint of a smile breach his expression.
Embarrassed, I swung my head away quickly, but still peeked at him through my rear view mirror, my old Honda sputtering past. From the outgrown fade to the outdated jeans, I knew he was not the kind of man to catch a woman with his money or his style. It would be his way with words, his strong sense of self, and his abilities in the bedroom that would do it.
After that day, my choice of shopping locations was easy and I proceeded to frequent his store until I saw him again. When I did, he was unloading cereal boxes onto the shelves, his well defined arms bulging magnificently.
Pretending to need a jar of molasses, I parked my cart beside the oats and surveyed him out of the corner of my eye. He worked the way he sat, relaxed and with what seemed like no particular goal in mind. For all he cared, it appeared to me, the stocking of shelves could have taken ten years to complete. He was a pleasure to behold, and upon imagining his muscular legs writhing against mine, I accidentally knocked a glass bottle of one hundred percent, pure maple syrup onto the floor. "Oops, I can't believe I just did that!" I yelped, stepping back to avoid the brown sticky mess that was oozing across the aisle.
"Don' worry. Me get a mop to clean de mess," the subject of my vivid daydream sighed indifferently as he strolled away. Unable to bear a confrontation, I ran out of the store faster than a jackrabbit with its tail on fire.
A couple of weeks later, confident enough to try my luck again, I returned and after looking around the store briefly, I found him in the produce section stacking oranges into a pyramid display. With hands cemented to the cart's handle, I walked past trying to appear casual, looking more like I was stuck in quicksand. When he glanced up and smiled, my heart immediately dropped into my stomach.
"Dem betta hide de syrup!" He had a laugh like a little boy -- quick and stuttering -- a light-hearted machine gun firing rounds of giddiness throughout the space. Likewise, his eyes twinkled like those hand-held sparklers you get on the fourth of July, and I knew I needed a quick comeback.
"Maple syrup is good for lots of things," I offered pathetically.
His eyebrows lifted. "Me know. It taste good pon de pancake dem."
"I really like pancakes," I replied, still sputtering. And though he had me confounded, our banter continued that day and over the next couple of months, progressing from talk of groceries, to the weather, to current events, until I found myself discussing the more intimate circumstances of my life with him.
Our incidental chats revealed an abundant number of similarities between us. We were both students at the same university, (albeit different faculties); we both had part-time jobs to pay the bills; we were both the oldest of three children; we both loved foreign films; and we both adored our pets to a fanatical extreme. In fact, we had so much in common, it was almost scary, and as time passed, I eagerly anticipated my conversations with this man. Things were getting interesting.
One chilly, autumn afternoon, I entered his store, hoping, as usual, to further our growing friendship. When he appeared from behind a stack of frozen juice flats and saw me -- armed with my small basket of non-necessities -- he beamed from ear to ear. To say that I was shocked when he walked over and actually put his arm around my shoulders is an understatement.
"Hello," he said, sounding casual. Disappointed, I assumed it was going to be just another day of benign conversation but then he unexpectedly leaned in close and whispered, "You look cozy in dem clothes." I was bundled tight in a scarf and wool coat.
"Ummm, OK." His eyes were the darkest shade of brown I'd ever seen.
"You mus' be hot. You wan' me fe hot you up some more?"
Long pause. "Ummm, I don't know..."
"Den say yes," he stated simply, like it was my only option. "Meet me after work 'ere about six, a'right?" When I couldn't speak, he continued, "A hot you hot fe me eenh... just mek me touch you." My face burning, I wondered if he thought all Caucasians pitiful, our skin color such an obvious indicator of our emotions.
Ironically, I discovered later that my cream-colored flesh excited him though I don't think even he realized it until we'd been a couple for some time. My lover enjoyed making me blush, and he took pride in his ability to mark me, each time purposely leaving behind little signs that he had been there. From the print of a hot slap, to a mottled, purple hickey, he used my skin like a tool: a device with which he could declare his manhood; a bulletin board for him to tell others that I was his property; and an instrument that signified my ever-increasing state of arousal when we were together.
"Me love de way you neck an' you chest red up like dat," he'd proclaim, leisurely tracing over the patterns of blotchiness he'd expertly created.
Admittedly, he wasn't the only one fascinated by our contrasting physical qualities either. For me though, it wasn't about manipulating his darkness that held particular appeal, mostly because it wasn't so easily changed in the first place. In that sense, among many others, he represented an immutable strength. No, what captivated me, were those features he had -- the ones that I didn't. His dense bush of ebony curls, both the ones that eloquently crowned his perfect head, and the extra-tight ones down below that encircled his penis, could keep me enthralled for hours. Similarly, the timbre of his voice with its exotic syllables and sounds thrummed straight to my heart, and in turn, activated a slow drip between my legs. Undoubtedly, he could bewitch me with a single word.
So later that day, when we met and he uttered my name upon greeting, I knew I'd be his willing prisoner forever. Then, like we were already seasoned lovers, he kissed me on the cheek, took my hand, and led me to his car. Through a break in the buildings, the setting sun was visible, a huge orange fireball melting into the horizon. "The gods dem a' rest tonight," he said. "De sun is happy you know..." He seemed content to believe that the world was at peace, our decision to be together having been approved at some higher, more spiritual level, and when he squeezed my palm tight, I felt the sudden influx of warmth inundating his veins. He was excited and so was I.
On the road however, he drove unhurriedly, as though his rising passion had no bearing on his actions. Back straight and eyes focused forward, he was a fairly convincing portrayal of a man in total control, and with each breath, his chest rose only marginally higher than it should've. But when I grazed his neck with my fingertips, he nearly vaulted right out of his seatbelt.
"A wha' you a do? You a try fe kill us?" Knowing what I did about him, I figured that he was annoyed at my ability to affect his composure with the slightest touch.
"Jumpy are we?" I kidded. "Ahhh... it's just that you are so sexy, I can't seem to keep my hands to myself." It was a brave comment and though I said it jokingly, it was how I really felt. Nevertheless, he didn't so much as smile at my compliment.
It took me a while to figure out stuff like that -- his apparent apathy at times -- but eventually I realized that it was his way of forcing me to pay attention, his way of making sure I gave a certain level of commitment to the intricacies of the relationship. There was a definite craft in loving this man and it was all in the details. Any other less determined or observant woman may have given up on him, but for me it was not an option. I needed him, though at that point, I still wasn't sure how much.
After the little angst-ridden, seat-ejecting incident, my master of steel nerves transformed yet again into a driving automaton, leading the way without question or concern for my wishes, and I dutifully went along for the ride. And as with all the other things he said and did, I liked it.
We cruised along through the city streets, sharing our childhoods, comparing our preferences for things like ice-cream and grapefruit juice, discussing seriously whether microwave ovens were more dangerous than cell phones, and deciding that two story houses were definitely better than bungalows for raising families. There were no awkward silences -- it was as if we'd been together many times already.
Before I knew it, we'd pulled into what I assumed was the parking lot of his apartment building, and up until then, our date had been uneventful -- comfortable -- but when he turned the car off, all the talking stopped. Shifting in his seat to rest against the door, he then began nervously stroking the short, curly hairs of his beard. In a way, he was the same as the first day I saw him outside the grocery store: reclining indifferently, but this time in a slightly more anxious manner. I too was fidgeting in my seat, not sure what to say, when suddenly he growled, "Show me you' behind."
Stunned, I hesitated long enough to put a couple of good-sized dents into my bottom lip, but finally, I managed a question, "Don't you want to go inside? Surely we've come all this way for a reason." My thinking was that if he'd wanted to have sex in the car, we could have done that at the mall. Now, maybe he didn't hear me, or maybe he was simply waiting for me to pull my pants off, but whatever the reason, he didn't reply. He just stared, tracking the contours of my body from the hollow of my throat down to the crux of my thighs.
