Until Ray

Also by Cheryl Robinson

________________

When I Get Free

If It Ain’t One Thing

It’s Like That

Sweet Georgia Brown

In Love with a Younger Man

When I Get Where I’m Going

Remember Me

The One

Like Mom

Copyright 2017 by Cheryl Robinson

All right reserved.

Published in the United States by Rose Colored Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CONTENTS

Cover

Also by Cheryl Robinson

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

June 1986

Ray

Sarita

Sarita

Ray

Sarita

July 1986

Ray

Sarita

Ray

August 1986

Sarita

September 1986

Ray

Sarita

October 1986

Ray

Sarita

November 1986

Ray

Sarita

Ray

Ray

November 19, 1987

Sarita

December 1987

Ray

June 1988

Sarita

August 1988

Ray

November 1988

Sarita

R ay

Acknowledgements

About The Author

To my late father, Benjamin Anthony Robinson Sr.

I found out what I’ve been missing

Always on the run

I’ve been looking for someone

-La Forrest Cope

(Lyrics from You Give Good Love Whitney Houston)

June 1986

_______________________________

RAY

_________

If it isn’t Raymond Saint. What’s up, man? I hear a familiar voice coming from behind me as I pose in front of a floor-length mirror in the women’s shoe department at Hudson’s admiring the suit I just got out of the layaway at Man-oh-Man. I have two more to get out next payday.

Joseph Morris steps into my view, and I turn to face him. Joe, man, what’s up? I haven’t seen you since we graduated. We share a brotherly handshake. How’ve you been?

Couldn’t be better, honestly. Life is real good. I’ve been in town for about a week, visiting family. I’m actually flying back tomorrow. I was just picking up a few things before I go.

You moved out of state?

Yeah, after I graduated from U of M. I’m starting my second year of law school at Stanford.

I’m pretty sure Joe’s father is either an attorney or a doctor.

Man, good to hear that. Joe was part of the crowd I hung with at Cass Tech. I’ve been out of high school since 1980. Six years now. Damn, that’s a long time to still be doing nothing.

I see you’re still staying sharp. Joe brushes my lapel.

Trying to.

So, man, what are you doing these days?

You know, the usual. Right now I’m just waiting for my girl.

He nods. Where did you end up going to school? It’s hard to keep up with everybody. Cass is so big, and we knew everybody, didn’t we?

I place one finger up to signal for Joe to wait, and then I unclip my pager. This is my girl paging me right now actually. I need to find her. I’ve got to get rid of him before he finds out the truth and every Cass Tech alumni knows that the guy voted most likely to succeed is now selling shoes. Why am I in denial? I’m sure most of them already know.

Really, that’s cool. I was on my way out. I got what I came for. Joe raises a Hudson’s shopping bag.

Ray. I hear the forceful voice of a female. I turn to see Cynthia Meyers. This has the potential to get real ugly, real fast.

What are you doing here? My eyes lock on Cynthia, and Joe disappears—even though he’s still standing here.

It’s a store, not your house. I don’t need an invite.

You need one if you’re coming to talk to me. What do you want?

Why did you stop calling me and stop taking my calls?

Well, man, ah, it was good seeing you, Joe says. I’ll let you handle your little situation.

Little situation? Cynthia eyeballs Joe. I’m a lot more than that.

Joe nods at me and quickly leaves.

Well, why haven’t you called me? Cynthia asks again.

I’ve been busy. I work my way between two of the tall clearance racks, seeking some privacy. Luckily, my manager won’t be in today, but there are three female customers browsing.

Busy doing what? Selling shoes? Cynthia flips one of the size-seven pumps off the rack. Hudson’s doesn’t stay open twenty-four hours, seven days a week.

Please tell me why you’re here.

Why I’m here? Cynthia snaps. Because I want you to tell me why you stopped calling me.

Do we have to talk about this here? I’m working.

You won’t talk to me any other time, so yeah—we do have to talk about it here. Unless you’re ready for me to act a complete fool at your job. If I’d known you were going to act this way after we had sex, I never would’ve slept with you.

I shake my head as I stare at her. Someone so pretty acting so ugly. I don’t believe that, I say.

I don’t know why not! she shouts.

Please lower your voice, I whisper and watch two customers walk out of the department, leaving only one woman trying on shoes. Because you had sex with me and didn’t even know me. That’s why.

So? Cynthia has a hand on her hips.

So? All you had was my first name and telephone number scribbled on the back of an Olga’s receipt. I lean down and whisper in her ear, You let me come inside your mouth and you swallowed.

And you liked it, and you said I was good. You also said you were taking me out to celebrate my birthday. What happened to all that?

I got busy.

Busy? I shouldn’t have to track your ass down. Don’t play with me, Ray, Cynthia says through gritted teeth. You weren’t busy when we were at Belle Isle and you were begging me to suck your little dick!

Little, really? I’m not going to let her bait me. Yep, you’re right.

I’m right? About what—your dick being little or that I shouldn’t have to track your ass down? Ray, I’m going to make your life so miserable, just like you’ve made mine.

How have I made your life miserable? We’ve only seen each other once.

Yep, and that’s why my life is miserable.

Look, I’m at work. Please leave or I’m calling security. I scan the sales floor. The customers who have just walked in are pretending not to listen, but I can tell they are.

Call security. I don’t care. I’m not shoplifting.

My coworker Denice—a sexy, gray-haired, older woman—is glaring at us from behind the cash register. She taps her finger on the face of her watch. It’s almost time for shift change. If Cynthia keeps this nonsense up, I’ll sic Denice on her and have her claw Cynthia’s hazel eyes out with her curved nails.

I may have kicked it with Cynthia a little longer, until something better came along, had her boyfriend, Blaze, not called me. He’s the one who told me her last name. He’s an ex-con. At least I’m not doing that bad. According to him, he served a year on an assault charge, all because of her. He confronted the man she was cheating on him with, and it turned physical. Blaze beat him with some nunchucks. He found the Olga’s receipt with my number and figured he needed to call and issue me a warning that if I continued to see her, I’d get beat down, too. He definitely doesn’t have to worry about that.

Ray, you ready? Denice asks. She’s strolled over and joined us between the clearance racks.

No, he isn’t. We’re still talking. Can’t you see that? Cynthia darts her eyes at Denice.

Listen, little girl. I wouldn’t exactly classify what the two of you are doing as talking. It’s more like you’re making a fool of yourself. If he wants to talk to you, he will call you. If he doesn’t, that means he’s not interested. You don’t have to come tracking him down at his job. What are you trying to do? Get a black man fired? It’s hard enough for our men.

Ray, tell your grandma to leave unless she wants to get beat down in the shoe department at Hudson’s.

Cynthia, go home to Blaze. Do right by your own man, I say.

If I take a razor blade out of my purse and slit my wrists, I bet you’d feel bad then, wouldn’t you?

I bet he wouldn’t, Denice says. And thank you for waiting until after our shift to do that.

Ray, you’re gonna have a surprise waiting for you. Believe that. She eases the handle of a switchblade from her fake Gucci purse and drops it back inside.

Surprise us, Denice says, and the two of us glide off.

___

Denice can barely restrain herself. She yanks me through her front door and massages my shoulders as she guides me down a long hallway. This is my first time at her house. Last week, we were in the stockroom at work both looking for a size eight in the same shoe for our customers. There was only one pair left, and I’d just grabbed it.

I’m sure we can work something out, she said. Next thing I knew she was on her knees, fiddling with my zipper. We flirt all the time, but I assumed a woman her age would never be interested in a man as young as me. Needless to say, I gave her the pair of shoes. I hope you know I didn’t do that to get these pair of shoes. I did it to get you, she said.

My mind was messed up for the rest of that day. And now I’m at her house, a really nice ranch, and I’m wondering how she can afford to live in the Ravines, working at Hudson’s. It’s not like she’s a manager. Her commission is decent but not that much better than mine. She has been there for twenty years. I guess that’s worth something. But this much? I doubt it.

How many bedrooms do you have? I ask.

Five. Denice pushes me inside one of them, kicks off her heels, and fumbles with my belt buckle and zipper. My pants drop and pool at my ankles. Do you know what I love about you? Your thing is always standing at attention and ready. She gets on her knees and yanks my boxers down. She called this little; it’s the biggest one I’ve seen.

This is why I love older women. You know just what to do. You’re not afraid of the dick like some of them young girls, I say as I grab Denice’s thick hair.

What did I tell you about messing around with those silly young girls, huh? You don’t need ’em. Momma’s gonna take good care of you, right?

I actually enjoy calling Denice Momma because my own mom won’t allow me to call her anything other than Miss King, and I always felt cheated by that. So if this is the only way I can call a woman Momma, I’ll take it.

What you want Momma to do to you? Do you want to come this way or the other way?

The other way.

You should’ve told me that. Got me wasting time on my knees when you could’ve already been on your back. She rises up and quickly comes out of her dress, pantyhose, bra, and panties.

She slaps my hand as I reach for her breasts. You love squeezing these big ole things, don’t you? I nod and pout. She’s teasing me, and I can’t stand it. You gonna have to wait. When you give Momma what she wants, Momma will give you what you want.

I jump into the bed and roll onto my back. How old are you, Denice? I always wanted to ask you that.

Does your dick care how old I am or how good I make it feel? Old enough to make these eight and a half inches feel better than it’s ever felt. She gave me an extra half an inch. I’ll take it.

Denice climbs on top of me, slides my dick inside of her, and starts riding me. If you keep giving me this dick whenever I want it, you won’t have to put no more suits in the layaway.

Just as I’m reaching out to squeeze those big melons of hers, Denice stops suddenly. Shhh, she says. I think that’s my husband.

Husband! You have a husband? You never told me that.

What do you think this is? She flashes the huge rock on her ring finger. Do you honestly think I can afford this house working in Hudson’s shoe department? Denice has several rings on her fingers. I assumed that was just another one.

Damn, Denice. I’m not trying to die.

Shhh. She places her index finger to her lips. She climbs off of me and tiptoes to the door, opens it, peeks out, and quickly closes it behind her. It’s him! What’s he doing here this early? Hide.

Where?

Somewhere. I don’t know. But whatever you do, don’t leave this room until I tell you to. She grabs her dress and heels, puts them on quickly, and sneaks out of the room.

I hurry to the door to lock it. I have to get out of here. I spot the phone on the nightstand and call my best friend, Boone. I just hope Denice’s husband doesn’t pick up while I’m on it. Boone has to come get me. It’s Tuesday. He’s off today. I’m too old to still be living like this and way too young to die.

I hear her husband talking as I’m rushing to put on my clothes.

A few seconds later, I quietly raise the window and try to pull up the screen. It won’t budge. I grit my teeth and try again. Only this time I try to channel all the anger I have about my life into getting the screen up. Maybe the adrenaline of the situation along with all my frustrations will turn me into the Hulk. It doesn’t.

I hear Denice’s husband’s voice outside the door and then hear the doorknob turn. Why is this door locked? he asks.

I don’t wait to hear her answer. It’s now or never. I punch through the screen, tear out the netting, and climb out. Then I sneak around the perimeter of their home like a burglar and run to the corner to wait for Boone at the entrance of the subdivision. I pray no one calls the Southfield police on me.

A few minutes later, Boone pulls up in his pickup. I jump inside. Go! Drive! Just take me to Northland, I yell. When I called him, I could tell from the drag in his voice that I was putting him out, but he always comes through for me. I just need to go back to the mall, get my car, and go home. I should’ve known that something was up when Denice told me to ride with her and that she’d bring me back to the mall. Still, I never would’ve thought she was married. That’s not cool at all. I’m not trying to sleep with another man’s wife. I do have some values.

As Boone drives me back to Northland, he starts in on another one of his lectures, like he’s my father and not the same age as me. Boone and I are nothing alike. We’ve known each other since our junior year at Cass, the same year he moved to Detroit from a small town called Jefferson. It’s in Texas.

He wears cowboy boots and cowboy hats and thick, prescription glasses that distort his eyes and make it difficult to tell if he’s looking at you—the longer you know him, the easier it is to get used to. He didn’t have too many friends in high school. We clicked because we both love playing Spades, and we’d play at lunch. He was my partner. He also has a sense of humor and acted somewhat like a bodyguard. I needed one because back then I was always messing with someone’s girl.

He’s a tall dude, way taller than me—six six—and in a minute, if he doesn’t push those burgers to the side, he’s going to be three hundred pounds because he’s already close to it. His wife, Sharon, also went to Cass with us. They’ve been married since they were eighteen.

Man, when are you going to give up all of your playing and settle down with one woman? Don’t you get tired? Boone asks.

Hook me up with one of Sharon’s friends. I do need to stop meeting women at the mall.

Most of her friends are already married.

She doesn’t have one single friend. Is that what you’re telling me? I glance at Boone as we’re sitting at a red light.

Not really.

Not really? What does that mean? Either she does or she doesn’t.

Well, I mean, one of her best friends is single, but nah, you can’t meet her.

What do you mean, ‘Nah, I can’t meet her’? Now he has me intrigued. Don’t tell me what I can’t have, because that makes me want it. How does she look? Describe her. Is she pretty?

Don’t even think about her. Her looks don’t matter.

Does she look like she could be related to Sharon? Or when we’re fucking am I going to have to have all the lights off and her head shoved down in a pillow?

And that statement right there is the exact reason why you won’t be meeting her. Besides, you wouldn’t be having sex with her because she’s going to stay a virgin until marriage.

A what?

You heard me, a virgin.

I turn up my nose and shake my head. I like a woman with a little experience, personally.

You’d rather have a woman who’s been with men as opposed to one that’s never been with one and you’re her first?

Yeah, because what’s a virgin going to do but lie there and have me do all the work?

If I had a choice, I’d want to be the first. Boone clearly didn’t have a choice with Sharon, because from what I heard, he wasn’t the first or the second or the third or the fourth. I’ll stop there, even though I could go on.

I try to visualize myself with a virgin, and I can’t because I’ve never been with one. I’ve never broken a hymen before. I wonder if it feels any different. I would like to meet her.

So you can break a hymen? Hell no. And you wouldn’t be breaking hers, trust me.

How do you know? Don’t issue a challenge. You know I’m a competitive dude.

Sarita’s a sweet, wholesome girl. Like I said, she’s still a virgin, and she’s also highly intelligent. She graduated from Georgetown with an MBA at twenty-two. She’s in management with GM and is a CPA. She’s the kind of woman you can take home to your mom. He thought about his statement. Well, maybe not your mom, but most moms.

And how old is she?

She turned twenty-four on April twenty-second. She’s a Taurus.

Okay, you say that like it means something.

It does mean something, because you’re a Libra.

And?

Y’all aren’t compatible.

Man, I don’t subscribe to that nonsense. The only compatibility we need to have is in the bedroom. And actually, I wouldn’t mind teaching her everything she needs to know.

She’s never even had a boyfriend.

What? I was getting excited about the idea of her, but I’m not anymore. What twenty-four-year-old woman is going to choose not to have a boyfriend? Men haven’t chosen her, which might be the real reason she’s still a virgin. She must not look too hot, I say to Boone.

Boone shrugs. She’s pretty to me. He pulls into Northland Mall, the upper level, near Hudson’s. As we approach my car, I notice something’s wrong. My car looks a lot lower than all the others parked around it. We pull up, and I see that all four tires on my Renault Alliance are slashed. I jump out of Boone’s F-150. Then I notice the scratches on the passenger side door. Someone has keyed the word Cheater into it.

Do you have AAA? Boone asks. He’s parked his truck and is now standing next to me.

Look at my car! And you’re asking do I have AAA? Look at my damn car.

What do you expect? You keep playing women and thinking none of them will ever retaliate. Looking at your car won’t fix it. Do you have AAA?

No, I don’t, and I can’t afford to call a tow.

I’ll pay it, man, and you can just pay me back.

I clear my throat and look at the sky to prevent my tears from falling. This is just one more thing, piled up on all the other things I can’t afford, not all of which is related to money. I’ll pay you back on payday. Man-oh-Man will just have to wait.

You can take your time paying me back. Get your suits out.

Those suits can wait. I want to pay you back. I shake my head and sniff. Damn, man, when is this shit ever gonna end?

You know when it’s gonna end. When you stop it. You have to be the one to change. To want to change.

Trust me, I want to. This is old. It’s just familiar. I wish I were more like you. I wish I did have a woman I clicked with. I’m so far behind in my life. I don’t even know where to start.

Somewhere. Start there.

___

On Saturday, my off day, I open the side door and notice a white Ford Escort parked out front. Cynthia Meyers is sitting in the driver’s seat. She’s at my mom’s house. I never brought her here or told her I live here. Is this girl stalking me? I’ve never had a stalker before. I’ve had women come over here after I stopped calling, which usually happens after we have sex. A few got on their knees, grabbed my ankles, and begged me to stay with them. But none of them have ever stalked me. It took my mom to get those women straight, and I never heard from them again. My mom has to do the same with Cynthia Meyers because I never want to see or hear from that girl again.

I rush into the kitchen in a panic. My mom is at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other reading obituaries in the Free Press, her favorite pastime. Miss King, listen, there’s a crazy woman outside. I need you to talk some sense into her.

My mom sets her cup down and takes a long drag of her cigarette. The only reason there’s a crazy woman outside is because you just like your daddy. Y’all drives them womens to be that way. They ain’t born like that. But once they get to messin’ with a Saint—your last name should be Sinner—they get to losin’ they mind. She shakes her head and puckers her lips. What you do to the girl? And don’t lie.

I ain’t do nothin’ to her. She too loose.

Loose? She loose ’cause you mens made her that way. You mens kill me, callin’ a woman loose. You the one laid down with her, what that make you?

But she’s too young to be that loose.

Young? How young? You best not be messin’ with no teenager. You almost twenty-four years old. You need to grow up and start actin’ your age. Get your own place. When you movin’ out?

She’s not that young. She’s twenty-one. Just talk to her, please.

Where she at?

In her car, sitting outside our house.

Stakin’ your ass out. Ain’t it sad the lows some womens go to behind mens. Let her ass sit there. I don’t care. It’s a free world, and last I check I don’t own any of these city streets, includin’ Santa Clara.

But she’s the one who flattened my tires and keyed my car.

My mom stabs her cigarette butt in the ashtray, stands up, and marches outside. I should’ve just told her that to begin with. I rush to the living room and crack the front window so I can hear their conversation. The distance between the street and the four-family isn’t much, and my mom and Cynthia both talk loud.

From my understanding, you the girl that flattened the tires on my son’s car and keyed the door. Is that true?

No, ma’am, Cynthia says. She’s gotten out of her car and is sitting on the hood with her arms folded, staring my mother down.

Don’t lie, ’specially not to me. ’Cause I can see through all that, and I can tell by the way you said, ‘No, ma’am,’ that you is. Let me tell you somethin’. Don’t let no mens tear you down that low. A pretty girl like you. You the one supposed to be messin’ with they heads, not the other way around. If you don’t have a line of mens waitin’ for you, somethin’ wrong with you. You not using what God blessed you with: that light skin, that long hair, them hazel eyes. Girl, please. Look at you. You almost pretty as I am. Almost.

Your son ain’t nothin’ but a player, and he done played with the wrong one this time.

Yeah, my son is a playa, and I don’t see what any of you womens see in him no way because he needs to get himself together or stay single.

But I like him. He’s so fine. He should model.

Model? We ain’t in New York. What he need to do is get him one of them damn factory jobs like his best friend got and start makin’ him some real money and be set for life.

He ain’t have to do me the way he did me, though?

What he do—fuck you?

Cynthia nods.

He ain’t force himself on you, did he?

Cynthia shakes her head.

Okay den. So he ain’t done no more than you wanted him to do, and evidently you liked it. You liked it so much that his thing got you actin’ a damn fool. I guess he done turned your young ass out because he done been with enough womens to know what he doin’ there.

I just can’t get your son out of my system, and I’ve tried.

Some of you womens ain’t no better than mens. Last I checked, a big dick ain’t never paid one bill. If you think my son can make you climax like no other, just wait till you get you one of them mens that makes sure you don’t have to worry about nothin’: lights paid, car note, rent, all that shit. I don’t care if his thing is this big. My mom waves her pinky finger around. That alone should be enough to make your toes curl. Stoppin’ bill collectors from callin’ your ass? Oh, that’s orgasm worthy right there.

All I can do is try. But you need to tell your son to stop playing games, especially with me.

Girl, my son is grown, and I’m not the coddlin’ type. He gonna live his life, and I’m sho’ gonna live mine. Right now, we may be livin’ together, but we all the way separate.

Yes, ma’am, Cynthia says, dragging her voice.

And one more thing. You gonna need to write my son out a check for the cost of the repair of that car door and those tires. He already got three estimates. Either that or he will be filing a police report with DPD on your ass, because he won’t be filing an insurance claim and have our rates go up. He’s on my policy, which means my rates will also go up, and I ain’t about to have that happen. So I hope you got a job. If not, you better hurry up and find you one of them mens I just finished tellin’ you about and have him pay it.

Yes, ma’am.

My mom marches back inside. Cynthia gets back in the car but stays parked out front.

What she say, Miss King? Why is she still out there?

You heard every word through that window you got up. My mom shakes her head. That one ain’t wrapped too tight, and I think I heard an accent. Is she from the islands? Because womens from the islands is crazy, so you betta hope not.

I shrug quickly. I don’t know. I don’t know her like that.

My mom draws her head back and frowns. You don’t know her like that? Pssh. But you still stuck your thing all up in her? You so nasty for doin’ that. You know that? She stares at me like she’s waiting for me to respond. Okay, I guess me and a whole bunch of other men and the women who let us are all nasty for doing that. You ain’t got nothin’ to say fo’ yourself?

It’s just something that happened.

Somethin’ that happened? My mom shakes her head. And it keeps happenin’, and I’m sick of it. I’m so tired of these womens comin’ over here. It’s gotta stop or you gotta move. Every time I gotta go and talk to one of them womens you stick yo’ thing up in, I lose some of myself. You know that? And that one out there I don’t understand at all. I mean, a pretty girl like that, actin’ a damn fool behind your ass. She supposed to have ten mens, comin’ out the woodworks, chasin’ after her. Somethin’ wrong with that one. You watch her. Watch her real good.

Cynthia finally drives off. I can only pray that it’s the last time I see her.

SARITA

_________

Celery. Baby carrots. Yogurt. Alfalfa sprouts. Whole wheat bread. Lots of cheese. Raisins (I do love those). Leftover salmon. Milk—now I have an idea. I plan to drive to the Boston-Edison area to Mr. Fo-Fo’s and get one of those huge slices of chocolate cake that’s large enough to feed three, even when one of them is Boone. That’ll go great with a tall glass of milk.

I take a deep sigh. When the highlight of my Saturday afternoon is eating chocolate cake, something’s gone terribly wrong. I’m not that old.

The doorbell rings.

Sarita, my mother says through our intercom system.

I walk over to the unit and press down the button to talk. Yes, Mother.

Please answer the door. That’s the new landscaper who’s coming to take a tour of our grounds. If you don’t mind starting it off, I’ll take it over in just a bit. I’m on the phone with Mrs. Emerson, and we’re discussing you.

Me?

Yes, you. I’ll tell you later.

Okay.

It’s a good thing this isn’t one of my lazy Saturdays when I sleep in until noon and then dwell on the fact that I still don’t have the life I want. This is one of those Saturdays where I got up and got fully dressed, opting for one of my Norma Kamali dresses, which has huge shoulder pads and two oversized pockets that flare at my hip in a way I really like. It’s the same color as my mood usually is—gray, which is the color of independence and self-reliance as well as evasion, noncommitment, and loneliness. Half of my wardrobe is that color.

Oh, and don’t get any thoughts. From what I hear, if it’s the son, he’s a good-looking man. Just remember he’s here about our lawn. He’s not a doctor making house calls.

Mother!

I stroll to the door, and as soon as I open it, I see stars. Good looking is an understatement. He’s not as beautiful as Presley Okafor at Georgetown, but close enough for me.

Hi, I’m Raphael Adams—the landscaper. Are you Dr. Sarah Deering?

No, that’s my mother. I’m Sarita, her daughter. But I guess I didn’t need to say that part. If she’s my mother, then I’m obviously her daughter, right? I clear my throat when he doesn’t respond and instead stares at me as if I have two heads and I’m talking out the side of both of them.

I’m here to walk the grounds.

I can start off showing you the grounds, and then my mother will finish if that’s okay?

He nods. He’s a clean-shaven man. His hair is in a regular low cut, which I’m glad of. If I see another hi-top fade, I don’t know what I might do. As much as I’d love to be in a relationship right now, if the only man I can have is one with a hi-top fade, I’ll continue being lonely.

Raphael is tall like my daddy—six two easily. He’s wearing a pair of Dickies and a tight-fitting white T-shirt. He’s muscular and, while unfortunately he isn’t dark-skinned, he’s not light-skinned either. Closer to my complexion, which is somewhere in the middle, only he’s