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Chapter 1
The early morning sun silhouetted Denise Daniels’ naked body against the balcony wall.
Her nipples, hardened by the crisp morning air, tingled as the cool air sensuously glided
over her breasts. She raised her anguished face to the new day. Thick fringed hazel eyes
filled with distress, pain, and regret silently pleaded with God for strength. Her slim,
honeyhued hand ran through sleep-mussed hair.
"I can’t go through with this." With troubled eyes, Denise peeked through the French
balcony doors at her sleeping fiancé, Robert Jackson. He lay in his king-size,
black-satin-sheeted brass bed with a muscled arm thrown across his face. She watched
disgustedly as a gob of spit trickled from the corner of his gaping mouth, trailed
down his chin, and formed a miniature pond on his prized satin sheets. Discomfited,
Denise fidgeted with her two-carat diamond engagement ring, not relishing what the new
day would bring. She shook her head sadly to herself.
"I don’t love him enough to make a lifetime commitment. It won’t be fair to either
of us to go through with this." Denise worried her full bottom lip. "But a number
of women would kill to be in my shoes."
Robert was a black man in corporate America, with a fabulous job, making big bucks,
driving a good car, and with connections in Atlanta’s black elite. He was on the fast
track at an international software development company, where he was being groomed for
a vice president’s position. Denise’s lips curled in contempt at her motives for wanting
to get married. By marrying Robert, she was guaranteed a slice of the American apple pie.
Not just a slice, but the whole damn pie, with two scoops of ice cream on top. She could
live the "American dream" that every woman desires. A house in the suburbs with the two
kids. Two cars parked in the driveway, one of them preferably, a sport utility vehicle. Not!
Denise ran her index finger along the balcony’s wooden rail, recalling the day she’d
met Robert. A vision of her knight in shining armor--more accurately, her African King
in a BMW--coming to her rescue overshadowed her tumbling thoughts. That morning didn’t
get off to a good start. She’d spent thirty minutes scouring her closet for her sexy,
but I-can-hang-with-the-best-of-them-in-corporate-America, conservative blue Anne Klein
suit before she realized that she’d dropped it off at her dry cleaners two weeks ago.
She settled instead on a black two-piece suit from an unknown designer that simply
stated, yes-I’m-here-in-corporate-America-please-forgive-my-fashion-faux pas. That
was also the morning she ran out of her favorite shade of Fashion Fair lipstick and
mascara. Make-up-less and pissed off, Denise hurried out of her townhouse to make her
interview on time.
She remembered easing into the traffic on Interstate 75, and heaving a sigh of relief.
The morning rush hour traffic flowed smoothly, with none of the horrific pileups
that Atlanta is famous for. She was back on track, everything was going to be fine.
Until the unthinkable happened. The most heart-stopping, fingernail-biting,
steering-wheel-clutching incident she’d ever experienced. Her tire blew out, right
in the middle of morning rush hour traffic. Her car spun crazily out of control,
narrowly missing several speeding vehicles. Fortunately, it spun onto the shoulder
of the expressway and out of the dangerous flow of traffic.
Robert, her savior, was watching Denise’s harrowing experience from the safety of
his car. She stood stock-still, heart pumping wildly, as a human pit bull slid out
of his silver BMW and headed in her direction. Robert’s soft, black, tailored suit
hugged his massive shoulders. A Hermes shirt and matching tie enhanced his bulging
muscles. Five-ten, pecan-colored, built like a professional weight lifter, and with
a huge shaved head, Robert presented an intimidating presence. He offered Denise
the use of his cell phone to call Triple A for assistance and to call her interviewer
to let him know that she was going to be late. He stayed with her to ensure that the
mechanics fixed her tire properly. While they waited for the mechanics, Denise took
the opportunity to get to know the fierce-looking brother. She discovered that Robert,
the oldest male of a brood of four siblings, possessed all the characteristics of the
oldest child according to the birth order theory. A classic over achiever with a Type A
personality, he had gone to Harvard for his undergrad studies in business. Then, not
wanting to miss out on experiencing a historically black school, he got his MBA from
Howard. Denise learned that he was an avid patron of the arts, lover of foreign films
and he golfed. She remembered thinking she had finally found a brother who shared her
taste for the finer things in life. From there started a two-year whirlwind relationship.
Denise and Robert took the term BUMP, Black Upwardly Mobile Professionals, and turned
it into a religion "BUMPism." They didn’t dine at a restaurant without consulting the
local food critic’s daily newspaper column. Clothes that didn’t sport a designer label
didn’t rate a glance. Vacations were expensive and frequent. Trips to Hawaii, Martha’s
Vineyard, and the Bahamas were common occurrences. Neither batted an eye when the
travel agent quoted the price for their three-week European honeymoon.
Trembling from the brisk morning air, Denise wrapped her honeyhued arms around her
sleek body for warmth. Still reluctant to return to the bedroom, she continued her
musings. It was after they got engaged, that she began to realize that their relationship
was not as perfect as she had thought. During that time, she discovered that she was
losing a part of herself. If she expressed an opinion that Robert didn’t like, he would
accuse her of not loving him. His idea of love was a couple thinking as a single unit,
with one brain, his. I don’t think so!
And the sex was dismal, it was so fucking predictable! Robert wanted it on the same days,
at the same time, and in the same position. He was clueless on how to satisfy a black woman.
Her personal mission was to energize their lackluster sex life. She eagerly took it on as
her "project." To give Robert some new ideas, she bought a better sex video that was advertised
in the back of a woman’s magazine that she frequently read. He watched it once and promptly
deemed the actors stilted and wooden. She reminded him that they were not Sieskel & Ebert.
They were looking for new ways to spark up their sex life, not rate a wannabe Oscar-winning
feature film. To the best of her knowledge, the video was on some shelf right now
collecting dust. She had taken an even bolder approach by guiding his hand during lovemaking,
but to no avail. Robert would appease her and acquiesce to her wishes for a couple of weeks,
but after that, it was back to his same old tired sex routine. When she found out that he
did not want to change his sexual technique (according to him, the problem was all her fault),
she learned to satisfy herself. After they had Robert’s version of sex, she would sneak
into the bathroom and masturbate herself to fulfillment.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Denise silently watched a flock of birds soaring together
in the sky, dipping and gliding lightly through the azure blue without a care in the world.
Free. Determined to handle her business, she squared her shoulders, braced herself for the
inevitable, and returned to the semi-dark bedroom. Shivering, she bent down to retrieve her
silk robe that Robert had ripped off her in one of his rare moments of passion. Securely
tying the belt around her svelte body, she studied Robert’s sleeping form. He’s not that
bad, she rationalized. While she felt around the carpeted floor in the muted darkness with
chilled feet for her slippers, a vivid picture of last night’s you-done-stepped-on-my-last-nerve
incident popped in her head. She and Robert were having dinner at Lorna’s, one of Atlanta’s
premier soul food restaurants, having returned from the movies after watching a
number-one-breaking-all-the-records-crazy-money-making movie, which starred a
white leading actress. Denise, pleased with the plot and the flow of the movie,
had scoffed at the choice in leading actress. Having seen the actress in such movies
as Beverly Hills Wives, The Stripper, and The Nights of Hollywood, she felt that the
woman’s acting ability was overrated.
Denise stuck a spoonful of heavily peppered baked macaroni and cheese into her mouth. Her
eyes glazed over in ecstasy as she sucked the cheese off the macaroni before swallowing.
The black pepper smarted her throat. Coughing, she reached for her glass of iced water
with lemon before voicing her comments on the movie.
"She’s an overpaid, collagen-injected, surgery enhanced, actress wannabe. I felt that
a sistah would’ve done a better job." Denise dropped her fork on her plate and, wearing
a defiant expression, waited for Robert’s response.
He gave a condescending nod. "Denise, honey, come on." His full lips curled downward in
a sneer. "Face it. There are no qualified Black actresses who could’ve filled the role."
"Wait, you’re telling me," she paused to ensure she had his undivided attention, "that
there are no qualified Black actresses in Hollywood who could’ve played the part?" The
fight was on. She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his response.
Undaunted by the prospect of a very public fight, Robert hungrily bit into his piece
of fried chicken before replying. "If there was one, she would’ve gotten the part, now
wouldn’t she?" He gave Denise a smug look.
It took the strength of God to keep her from jumping across the table and slapping the
shit out of him. He’s crazy! She inhaled sharply. When did he relinquish his membership
in the Spike Lee fan club? She never realized how much he’d changed since the carrot
of becoming a vice president had been dangled in front of him. So the transformation
of a brother joining corporate America has begun. "Think like the majority," must be their
mantra. Denise shook her head in contempt. Isn’t he aware of the furor about the lack
of Black nominees for the Oscars? Not to mention the high number of Blacks who are
not getting quality roles.
"Robert, there are many qualified Black actresses who could do the job and probably do
it better than the white woman they put in the leading role. All I’m saying is they
deserve a chance. They should be judged on their acting abilities not by the color
of their skin."
Robert ripped his teeth into his corn on the cob, which was slathered with butter.
"Don’t try giving me some fucked-up version of Martin Luther King’s rhetoric. Maybe
they’re not trying hard enough to get the leading roles. They need to pull themselves
up by their boot straps."
"What!" Denise shrieked in shock. Her voice carried over the harsh din of the restaurant.
All conversation ceased, ears perked in gleeful anticipation of a fight. She brazenly
studied the man she thought she was in love with. Butter dribbled from the corners of
his mouth and a kernel of corn sat lodged in the middle of his two front teeth. She
shook her head at him in disappointment and disgust. I’m about to marry a Clarence
Thomas clone, she thought incredulously.
Just thinking about last night pissed her off again. His ass gotta go! As if reading her
thoughts, Robert snorted in his sleep. With renewed anger and determination,
she vigorously shook Robert awake. Her mulberry- colored silk robe shimmered
with her rapid movements.
"Wake up! I’ve got to talk to you."
He opened one bleary eye, pulled Denise against his face, and showered her with wet,
sloppy kisses that left spittle on her face.
"Stop!" She shoved him away and stilled his movements with a glare. "We’ve got to talk."
Still not awake, he groggily sat up and sighed. "What about?" he asked impatiently.
Denise skirted over to the dresser, changed her mind and retraced her steps back to
Robert, who was slowly emerging from his cocoon of sleep.
"Robert," she started, pacing back and forth across the bedroom. She took a deep
breath and started again, "I can’t do this." Confusion washed across his sleepy,
pecan-colored face. He wasn’t getting it. "I can’t marry you."
His mouth gaped open and clamped shut without his uttering a sound. Denise watched
his repeated but futile attempts to speak with a heavy heart mixed with a sliver of
vindictiveness. Yeah, I got you now.
"I’m sorry." Tentatively, she reached out her hand to quell his trembling ones. She
was stopped short by the depth of emotions that swept across his face. She identified
anger, hurt, and love. By the look in his eyes, she knew that he was revisiting his
proposal to her. It was their one-year anniversary and he had surprised her with a
five-day vacation to Cancun, Mexico. The days were spent sightseeing, and the nights
enjoying the nightlife that Cancun is famous for. It was on their last day of vacation
that Robert popped the question. They had spent the day relaxing along the pool side of
the all-inclusive resort, she in her string bikini and he in his bikini briefs, bemoaning
the fact that they had to return to work next week. Surprising her, he got down on bended
knee and made her girlhood dream come true. She was going to be a bride!
Robert suddenly found his voice, pulling Denise back to the present. "What!" He thrust
his compact body off the bed and landed directly in front of her. "What are you talking
about? Baby, you love me."
Denise’s hazel eyes swept over her ring. "I thought I loved you, but all I was in love
with was the idea of marriage and the security you offered me."
"What’s wrong with that?" he snorted. "I’ll take care of you, boo." His voice lowered
an octave, "Besides, I need you."
"For what?" she taunted. Her aeneous eyes flashed with disdain. "A pretty escort, someone
to fuck according to your schedule. I can’t do this. I need a man who I can be myself with."
"Now you’re just being silly." He angrily flopped back onto the bed. "Give me one example
where I stifled Ms. Denise Daniels." He tilted his head to the side and pinned her with
a mocking smirk.
Denise cringed inwardly at his expression. Mirroring his stance she fired back at him.
"Case in point: remember, when I told you I wanted to take a cruise with Janisha and Monique?
You sulked for a whole week. That’s how it is with you. You also..." her voice drifted off
into nothingness. Afraid to continue, she averted her eyes and wrung her hands.
"Spit it out Denise!" Robert demanded.
She returned her gaze to the man she thought she was in love with. "You scare me sometimes.
When things don’t go your way, you turn into a monster. And it’s like I’m a heartbeat
away from being your punching bag."
Stunned, Robert slumped over, looked up at her with tear-filled eyes, and dropped his face
in his hands. His muscled body heaved with emotion. Calming himself, he faced Denise.
"Baby, I’ll never hit you."
"I can’t explain it, it’s as if you’re close to the edge. One wrong word or look might
trigger a hit, and I can’t live tip-toeing around you."
"This ain’t right. Think about what you’re doing," he begged.
"I think you’re a nice guy, and I’ll never forget the time we’ve spent together, but I know that we’ll both be
happier with someone else."
He snickered. "Do you ladies have the same book that you get that from? ‘You’re a nice guy,’ " he
mimicked Denise.
She cut her eyes at him. "I don’t have time for this shit."
Anger flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with confusion. "Did you find someone else?"
Laughter bubbled over her tongue and almost slipped through her lips. Why do men always think that there’
s someone else? Denise shook her head no. "Trust me. There’s no one else." She pulled the two-carat
diamond ring off and held it out to him.
He glanced at the ring in her outstretched hand. "You keep it. I bought it for you." Giving his ex-fiancee a
tight-lipped smile, he threw on his I’m-tough-I’m-a-black-man-and-I-can-handle-it mask and strutted toward
his bathroom. "I’ll call you to pick up my clothes," he threw over his shoulder.
Her hazel eyes filled with tears, making Robert’s once intimidating body a non-threatening blur. "Take care
of yourself."
Later that evening, Denise lay in her bed reflecting on everything that had happened between them. And
on what she really wanted. I want the type of relationship my parents have. Their relationship is one built on
love, trust, and mutual respect for each other. Not on superficial shit. I look at their relationship
as my blueprint for a healthy relationship. It’s funny, I almost believed the hype that a woman must have a man
in her life or she isn’t shit. I can hear the whispers now: "How come she can’t keep a man?" "Maybe she wasn’t
rocking his world," or "She likes other girls." And the winner of them all: "She doesn’t know how to treat a
black man." But, what would really make me happy? She pondered the question for a moment. I
know that I would want someone who’ll make me laugh, someone who’ll challenge me mentally,
and nourish me spiritually. Someone who’ll give it to me so good in bed that I’ll still have aftershocks from my
orgasm two days later. According to Janisha and the rest of the women I know, black and white, the dating
scene is whacked. Nowadays, dating is about as detestable as a self-administered enema. The constant game
playing, the lies, and the heartache. Denise’s body shivered involuntarily. I really feel that if someone is meant
to be in my life, the Lord will bring him to me when it’s time.
Chuckling deeply, Denise looked up at her bedroom ceiling. "Lord, I know that you’ll
send the right man to me when I’m ready for him. But please," she rolled her eyes, "don’t send me a..."
Catching herself, Denise clamped her mouth shut, she was about to say something ugly and unnecessary.
She reverently returned her gaze to the ceiling. "God, just send me a good man."
Her nipples, hardened by the crisp morning air, tingled as the cool air sensuously glided
over her breasts. She raised her anguished face to the new day. Thick fringed hazel eyes
filled with distress, pain, and regret silently pleaded with God for strength. Her slim,
honeyhued hand ran through sleep-mussed hair.
"I can’t go through with this." With troubled eyes, Denise peeked through the French
balcony doors at her sleeping fiancé, Robert Jackson. He lay in his king-size,
black-satin-sheeted brass bed with a muscled arm thrown across his face. She watched
disgustedly as a gob of spit trickled from the corner of his gaping mouth, trailed
down his chin, and formed a miniature pond on his prized satin sheets. Discomfited,
Denise fidgeted with her two-carat diamond engagement ring, not relishing what the new
day would bring. She shook her head sadly to herself.
"I don’t love him enough to make a lifetime commitment. It won’t be fair to either
of us to go through with this." Denise worried her full bottom lip. "But a number
of women would kill to be in my shoes."
Robert was a black man in corporate America, with a fabulous job, making big bucks,
driving a good car, and with connections in Atlanta’s black elite. He was on the fast
track at an international software development company, where he was being groomed for
a vice president’s position. Denise’s lips curled in contempt at her motives for wanting
to get married. By marrying Robert, she was guaranteed a slice of the American apple pie.
Not just a slice, but the whole damn pie, with two scoops of ice cream on top. She could
live the "American dream" that every woman desires. A house in the suburbs with the two
kids. Two cars parked in the driveway, one of them preferably, a sport utility vehicle. Not!
Denise ran her index finger along the balcony’s wooden rail, recalling the day she’d
met Robert. A vision of her knight in shining armor--more accurately, her African King
in a BMW--coming to her rescue overshadowed her tumbling thoughts. That morning didn’t
get off to a good start. She’d spent thirty minutes scouring her closet for her sexy,
but I-can-hang-with-the-best-of-them-in-corporate-America, conservative blue Anne Klein
suit before she realized that she’d dropped it off at her dry cleaners two weeks ago.
She settled instead on a black two-piece suit from an unknown designer that simply
stated, yes-I’m-here-in-corporate-America-please-forgive-my-fashion-faux pas. That
was also the morning she ran out of her favorite shade of Fashion Fair lipstick and
mascara. Make-up-less and pissed off, Denise hurried out of her townhouse to make her
interview on time.
She remembered easing into the traffic on Interstate 75, and heaving a sigh of relief.
The morning rush hour traffic flowed smoothly, with none of the horrific pileups
that Atlanta is famous for. She was back on track, everything was going to be fine.
Until the unthinkable happened. The most heart-stopping, fingernail-biting,
steering-wheel-clutching incident she’d ever experienced. Her tire blew out, right
in the middle of morning rush hour traffic. Her car spun crazily out of control,
narrowly missing several speeding vehicles. Fortunately, it spun onto the shoulder
of the expressway and out of the dangerous flow of traffic.
Robert, her savior, was watching Denise’s harrowing experience from the safety of
his car. She stood stock-still, heart pumping wildly, as a human pit bull slid out
of his silver BMW and headed in her direction. Robert’s soft, black, tailored suit
hugged his massive shoulders. A Hermes shirt and matching tie enhanced his bulging
muscles. Five-ten, pecan-colored, built like a professional weight lifter, and with
a huge shaved head, Robert presented an intimidating presence. He offered Denise
the use of his cell phone to call Triple A for assistance and to call her interviewer
to let him know that she was going to be late. He stayed with her to ensure that the
mechanics fixed her tire properly. While they waited for the mechanics, Denise took
the opportunity to get to know the fierce-looking brother. She discovered that Robert,
the oldest male of a brood of four siblings, possessed all the characteristics of the
oldest child according to the birth order theory. A classic over achiever with a Type A
personality, he had gone to Harvard for his undergrad studies in business. Then, not
wanting to miss out on experiencing a historically black school, he got his MBA from
Howard. Denise learned that he was an avid patron of the arts, lover of foreign films
and he golfed. She remembered thinking she had finally found a brother who shared her
taste for the finer things in life. From there started a two-year whirlwind relationship.
Denise and Robert took the term BUMP, Black Upwardly Mobile Professionals, and turned
it into a religion "BUMPism." They didn’t dine at a restaurant without consulting the
local food critic’s daily newspaper column. Clothes that didn’t sport a designer label
didn’t rate a glance. Vacations were expensive and frequent. Trips to Hawaii, Martha’s
Vineyard, and the Bahamas were common occurrences. Neither batted an eye when the
travel agent quoted the price for their three-week European honeymoon.
Trembling from the brisk morning air, Denise wrapped her honeyhued arms around her
sleek body for warmth. Still reluctant to return to the bedroom, she continued her
musings. It was after they got engaged, that she began to realize that their relationship
was not as perfect as she had thought. During that time, she discovered that she was
losing a part of herself. If she expressed an opinion that Robert didn’t like, he would
accuse her of not loving him. His idea of love was a couple thinking as a single unit,
with one brain, his. I don’t think so!
And the sex was dismal, it was so fucking predictable! Robert wanted it on the same days,
at the same time, and in the same position. He was clueless on how to satisfy a black woman.
Her personal mission was to energize their lackluster sex life. She eagerly took it on as
her "project." To give Robert some new ideas, she bought a better sex video that was advertised
in the back of a woman’s magazine that she frequently read. He watched it once and promptly
deemed the actors stilted and wooden. She reminded him that they were not Sieskel & Ebert.
They were looking for new ways to spark up their sex life, not rate a wannabe Oscar-winning
feature film. To the best of her knowledge, the video was on some shelf right now
collecting dust. She had taken an even bolder approach by guiding his hand during lovemaking,
but to no avail. Robert would appease her and acquiesce to her wishes for a couple of weeks,
but after that, it was back to his same old tired sex routine. When she found out that he
did not want to change his sexual technique (according to him, the problem was all her fault),
she learned to satisfy herself. After they had Robert’s version of sex, she would sneak
into the bathroom and masturbate herself to fulfillment.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Denise silently watched a flock of birds soaring together
in the sky, dipping and gliding lightly through the azure blue without a care in the world.
Free. Determined to handle her business, she squared her shoulders, braced herself for the
inevitable, and returned to the semi-dark bedroom. Shivering, she bent down to retrieve her
silk robe that Robert had ripped off her in one of his rare moments of passion. Securely
tying the belt around her svelte body, she studied Robert’s sleeping form. He’s not that
bad, she rationalized. While she felt around the carpeted floor in the muted darkness with
chilled feet for her slippers, a vivid picture of last night’s you-done-stepped-on-my-last-nerve
incident popped in her head. She and Robert were having dinner at Lorna’s, one of Atlanta’s
premier soul food restaurants, having returned from the movies after watching a
number-one-breaking-all-the-records-crazy-money-making movie, which starred a
white leading actress. Denise, pleased with the plot and the flow of the movie,
had scoffed at the choice in leading actress. Having seen the actress in such movies
as Beverly Hills Wives, The Stripper, and The Nights of Hollywood, she felt that the
woman’s acting ability was overrated.
Denise stuck a spoonful of heavily peppered baked macaroni and cheese into her mouth. Her
eyes glazed over in ecstasy as she sucked the cheese off the macaroni before swallowing.
The black pepper smarted her throat. Coughing, she reached for her glass of iced water
with lemon before voicing her comments on the movie.
"She’s an overpaid, collagen-injected, surgery enhanced, actress wannabe. I felt that
a sistah would’ve done a better job." Denise dropped her fork on her plate and, wearing
a defiant expression, waited for Robert’s response.
He gave a condescending nod. "Denise, honey, come on." His full lips curled downward in
a sneer. "Face it. There are no qualified Black actresses who could’ve filled the role."
"Wait, you’re telling me," she paused to ensure she had his undivided attention, "that
there are no qualified Black actresses in Hollywood who could’ve played the part?" The
fight was on. She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his response.
Undaunted by the prospect of a very public fight, Robert hungrily bit into his piece
of fried chicken before replying. "If there was one, she would’ve gotten the part, now
wouldn’t she?" He gave Denise a smug look.
It took the strength of God to keep her from jumping across the table and slapping the
shit out of him. He’s crazy! She inhaled sharply. When did he relinquish his membership
in the Spike Lee fan club? She never realized how much he’d changed since the carrot
of becoming a vice president had been dangled in front of him. So the transformation
of a brother joining corporate America has begun. "Think like the majority," must be their
mantra. Denise shook her head in contempt. Isn’t he aware of the furor about the lack
of Black nominees for the Oscars? Not to mention the high number of Blacks who are
not getting quality roles.
"Robert, there are many qualified Black actresses who could do the job and probably do
it better than the white woman they put in the leading role. All I’m saying is they
deserve a chance. They should be judged on their acting abilities not by the color
of their skin."
Robert ripped his teeth into his corn on the cob, which was slathered with butter.
"Don’t try giving me some fucked-up version of Martin Luther King’s rhetoric. Maybe
they’re not trying hard enough to get the leading roles. They need to pull themselves
up by their boot straps."
"What!" Denise shrieked in shock. Her voice carried over the harsh din of the restaurant.
All conversation ceased, ears perked in gleeful anticipation of a fight. She brazenly
studied the man she thought she was in love with. Butter dribbled from the corners of
his mouth and a kernel of corn sat lodged in the middle of his two front teeth. She
shook her head at him in disappointment and disgust. I’m about to marry a Clarence
Thomas clone, she thought incredulously.
Just thinking about last night pissed her off again. His ass gotta go! As if reading her
thoughts, Robert snorted in his sleep. With renewed anger and determination,
she vigorously shook Robert awake. Her mulberry- colored silk robe shimmered
with her rapid movements.
"Wake up! I’ve got to talk to you."
He opened one bleary eye, pulled Denise against his face, and showered her with wet,
sloppy kisses that left spittle on her face.
"Stop!" She shoved him away and stilled his movements with a glare. "We’ve got to talk."
Still not awake, he groggily sat up and sighed. "What about?" he asked impatiently.
Denise skirted over to the dresser, changed her mind and retraced her steps back to
Robert, who was slowly emerging from his cocoon of sleep.
"Robert," she started, pacing back and forth across the bedroom. She took a deep
breath and started again, "I can’t do this." Confusion washed across his sleepy,
pecan-colored face. He wasn’t getting it. "I can’t marry you."
His mouth gaped open and clamped shut without his uttering a sound. Denise watched
his repeated but futile attempts to speak with a heavy heart mixed with a sliver of
vindictiveness. Yeah, I got you now.
"I’m sorry." Tentatively, she reached out her hand to quell his trembling ones. She
was stopped short by the depth of emotions that swept across his face. She identified
anger, hurt, and love. By the look in his eyes, she knew that he was revisiting his
proposal to her. It was their one-year anniversary and he had surprised her with a
five-day vacation to Cancun, Mexico. The days were spent sightseeing, and the nights
enjoying the nightlife that Cancun is famous for. It was on their last day of vacation
that Robert popped the question. They had spent the day relaxing along the pool side of
the all-inclusive resort, she in her string bikini and he in his bikini briefs, bemoaning
the fact that they had to return to work next week. Surprising her, he got down on bended
knee and made her girlhood dream come true. She was going to be a bride!
Robert suddenly found his voice, pulling Denise back to the present. "What!" He thrust
his compact body off the bed and landed directly in front of her. "What are you talking
about? Baby, you love me."
Denise’s hazel eyes swept over her ring. "I thought I loved you, but all I was in love
with was the idea of marriage and the security you offered me."
"What’s wrong with that?" he snorted. "I’ll take care of you, boo." His voice lowered
an octave, "Besides, I need you."
"For what?" she taunted. Her aeneous eyes flashed with disdain. "A pretty escort, someone
to fuck according to your schedule. I can’t do this. I need a man who I can be myself with."
"Now you’re just being silly." He angrily flopped back onto the bed. "Give me one example
where I stifled Ms. Denise Daniels." He tilted his head to the side and pinned her with
a mocking smirk.
Denise cringed inwardly at his expression. Mirroring his stance she fired back at him.
"Case in point: remember, when I told you I wanted to take a cruise with Janisha and Monique?
You sulked for a whole week. That’s how it is with you. You also..." her voice drifted off
into nothingness. Afraid to continue, she averted her eyes and wrung her hands.
"Spit it out Denise!" Robert demanded.
She returned her gaze to the man she thought she was in love with. "You scare me sometimes.
When things don’t go your way, you turn into a monster. And it’s like I’m a heartbeat
away from being your punching bag."
Stunned, Robert slumped over, looked up at her with tear-filled eyes, and dropped his face
in his hands. His muscled body heaved with emotion. Calming himself, he faced Denise.
"Baby, I’ll never hit you."
"I can’t explain it, it’s as if you’re close to the edge. One wrong word or look might
trigger a hit, and I can’t live tip-toeing around you."
"This ain’t right. Think about what you’re doing," he begged.
"I think you’re a nice guy, and I’ll never forget the time we’ve spent together, but I know that we’ll both be
happier with someone else."
He snickered. "Do you ladies have the same book that you get that from? ‘You’re a nice guy,’ " he
mimicked Denise.
She cut her eyes at him. "I don’t have time for this shit."
Anger flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with confusion. "Did you find someone else?"
Laughter bubbled over her tongue and almost slipped through her lips. Why do men always think that there’
s someone else? Denise shook her head no. "Trust me. There’s no one else." She pulled the two-carat
diamond ring off and held it out to him.
He glanced at the ring in her outstretched hand. "You keep it. I bought it for you." Giving his ex-fiancee a
tight-lipped smile, he threw on his I’m-tough-I’m-a-black-man-and-I-can-handle-it mask and strutted toward
his bathroom. "I’ll call you to pick up my clothes," he threw over his shoulder.
Her hazel eyes filled with tears, making Robert’s once intimidating body a non-threatening blur. "Take care
of yourself."
Later that evening, Denise lay in her bed reflecting on everything that had happened between them. And
on what she really wanted. I want the type of relationship my parents have. Their relationship is one built on
love, trust, and mutual respect for each other. Not on superficial shit. I look at their relationship
as my blueprint for a healthy relationship. It’s funny, I almost believed the hype that a woman must have a man
in her life or she isn’t shit. I can hear the whispers now: "How come she can’t keep a man?" "Maybe she wasn’t
rocking his world," or "She likes other girls." And the winner of them all: "She doesn’t know how to treat a
black man." But, what would really make me happy? She pondered the question for a moment. I
know that I would want someone who’ll make me laugh, someone who’ll challenge me mentally,
and nourish me spiritually. Someone who’ll give it to me so good in bed that I’ll still have aftershocks from my
orgasm two days later. According to Janisha and the rest of the women I know, black and white, the dating
scene is whacked. Nowadays, dating is about as detestable as a self-administered enema. The constant game
playing, the lies, and the heartache. Denise’s body shivered involuntarily. I really feel that if someone is meant
to be in my life, the Lord will bring him to me when it’s time.
Chuckling deeply, Denise looked up at her bedroom ceiling. "Lord, I know that you’ll
send the right man to me when I’m ready for him. But please," she rolled her eyes, "don’t send me a..."
Catching herself, Denise clamped her mouth shut, she was about to say something ugly and unnecessary.
She reverently returned her gaze to the ceiling. "God, just send me a good man."
