A Dating Story - Pt. 21

“How can I bring a Black child into a world that is abundantly and unrelentingly homicidal to Black skin?”

Earlier…

Half past 10…

Mallorca.

Mae, Aitana, Christina and Sasha grazed over their plates. Well, there was a lonely bread basket with three slices. They took down three entrees apiece from Aitana’s family’s restaurant. The tornado of press commitments? Each of them fulfilled. Wrapped. Chrissy and Mae’s publisher found a way to close it out without Mae disappearing for her third lone voyage. Mae’s parents and Professor Bailey were there too.

The restaurant hosted many professional colleagues Mae created during her time in Barcelona as a student and post-graduation. It felt like every notable connection she made was able to celebrate that debut foray into the world of writing. Somewhere between Mae’s opening speech and the flow of infinite alcohol, her publisher emailed her a preliminary contract for the sequel.

Aitana and Mae huddled together over what appeared to be a barrel of olives and unending prosecco to plot her next move. Aitana was openly more jubilant about Mae’s opportunity than Mae was. Mae was weighing offers to teach in Portugal, Nigeria, Côte d'Ivoire, and Mexico. She had an automatic position at her college in Barcelona whenever she wanted. There were intriguing think tanks across the world that invited her to join. Not due to her irrefutable spotlight, but simply because she was appreciated. Respected.

The publisher and Mae’s agent nudged Chrissy to help get the signature on the contract. Chrissy politely declined to have any role in the negotiations. Mae emailed the file to her lawyer who made it as clear as the world’s most precious diamond that Mae was not obligated in any way to provide another book. The contract language for the first book was meticulous in explaining that Mae and the publisher entered into an agreement for one manuscript. Mae ultimately told her publisher that she’d “consider it” before Aitana’s grandmother was given the order to put down the heaviest pot of botifarra and Catalan seafood stew in front of both her agent and publisher.

The celebration took its standard course on nights such as these. Smiling, clapping, hugging, promises to “get lunch or something” that are likely never to occur, etc. Although with those in attendance, most of those invitations were genuine.

At the table…

Aitana pulled herself to her feet, defeating the food coma for that round, as some of her younger cousins got the restaurant back to presentable shape for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. Everyone was sleeping later into tomorrow morning. Grandma thought to close for the next morning. She was set to decide if they would prepare lunch, dinner, or go dark for the day.

No work for anyone tomorrow! Grandma called the kitchen before Aitana closed. The rest of the family would find out however they happened to. She hated texts. No one understood Grandma’s memes anyway. They were overtly inappropriate for every context. It had to be purposeful.

Seventy-four minutes later under a smoky moon on the beach…

Mae used a frisbee to dig herself a bucket seat in the sand with a back rest included. A cooler full of refreshments were at her right knee. While she was tempted to gulp fancy, frizzy, wine coolers, she instead popped grapes. Some tucked into every pocket of her hoodie that had far too many compartments for them all to be useful. They were…there. The volume was perplexing.

After she allowed grapes to settle into her cheeks like a chipmunk, she turned on her two miniature lights and placed them atop the cooler. She stood. Sat. Stood again. Threw her head backwards. Once more she shuffled into her sand bucket seat and unfurled her journal from the inner pocket of her fleece.

She glanced over each leaf with her right hand while fishing her mother’s fountain pen from her left pocket. Mae scanned for the perfect spot to place her ink tip. Identically to how Fortune would spin endlessly in the same spot before putting herself down.

“Fortune.”

Mae said her name. It caused a small incision over her heart. Smiling away the anguish wouldn’t alleviate it – and so she didn’t participate in the act.

The pen took charge:

I feel confined here… I’d like if I didn’t have to experience any of this. None of it. I want to go away. No, if anyone reads this journal this isn’t how it may appear to your eyes. First, I’ll ask, why the hell do you have my book? Second, return it to the proper mailing address in the back. Thief!
I’m trapped. Again, Mae, we continue to return to that word. There are other synonyms, you know. I wish I could disconnect. Leave. In this moment if I had a choice… I’d go. No, this isn’t the last letter before I walk into the Mediterranean Sea. I’m not suicidal. I'm calling you out...intrusive reader who somehow defeated me in battle and captured my current volume of thoughts.
These are the last days of Aitana and I. We’re together? We’re not? It feels like we’re back on. We’re fucking every night. She said we shouldn't and then laid next to me. Naked. I should've slept with my clothes on. My tits were sweating.