Choose Me (10 page)

He laughed. “Oh, you’re a tough diva, huh?”

I looked at him surprised, remembering how Anthony used to call me “Tough Diva-Eva,” albeit spitefully. But I figured Adam
didn’t mean anything by it so when I started walking and he fell in step, I didn’t dissuade him. He took the outside of the
sidewalk like a man who had been raised properly. For the first block, we didn’t speak and I told myself that if he didn’t
say anything until we reached my car, it would be just fine. Maybe he thought I was a snob, which I’m not. I just figured
rather than say something mundane, it was better not to say anything at all. And then again, who cared what he thought? The
less said, the better.

“So, what kind of stuff do you write?” he asked, disturbing my silence.

“I don’t like to talk about my writing. To strangers. No offense.”

He shrugged. “That’s cool. Just trying to make conversation.”

My heel caught in one of the sidewalk cracks obscured by a puddle and I stumbled awkwardly, almost falling on my face, but
Adam caught my arm and held me up. An electric charge went up my arm.

“Good thing I was here, huh?” he kidded.

“Yeah, I could’ve been killed.”

He laughed and I gave him my fake smile again, trying to cover up my embarrassment for tripping. I looked at his hand, which
was still holding my arm, and he pulled it away quickly like he was afraid I was going to hit him.

“You are mean,” he said, but his voice was not serious.

“I am not.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re one of those females who give men a hard time, busts their nuts before you even let them get the time
of day. I bet the boys in grammar school ran away from you,” he teased. “And in high school, they were probably too scared
to ask you out.”

“No, that’s not me at all.” But in fact, it was the Eva I knew, with slight variations. When boys tried to kiss me in grammar
school, I’d beat them up. In high school, I cursed out any guy who tried to make an advance because I knew what was on their
minds. I thought of how I had broken up with Anthony after he had touched my behind. I didn’t trust boys then and I trusted
men even less as an adult.

As we fell silent again, I tried to keep my eyes on the wet sidewalk ahead of me, as the misty rain tickled my face. From
the corner of my eye, I saw him pull out another cigarette and light it. I noticed he was left-handed, like me, which was
good because he was holding the cigarette and blowing the smoke to his left, away from me. We walked the next half block quietly,
the peace interrupted only when a car splashed by.

“So, how do you feel about your sister and Luciano?”

“It’s her life. I try not to judge her. And I pray for her.”

I saw his eyebrows go up. “I used to do a lot of that.”

“What? Pray? Let me guess, something bad happened to you and you stopped believing in God?”

He didn’t answer right away and when I glanced over at him, he was staring straight ahead with a serious look on his face.
I could only surmise that I had guessed correctly.

“I didn’t say I stopped believing. I just said, I used to pray a lot. And now, I don’t. Pray as much.”

I have always dreaded the day that I would be tested by the Lord to the point where I would stop believing, or deny Him. I
prayed that that day would never come. At least he was a believer. Nonbelievers scare me, like murderers and pedophiles.

“Oh, thanks for your input in the discussion earlier,” I said, remembering.

“My pleasure. Affirmative action is a sore spot for me. Plus, I hate when people use that term ‘minority.’ It irritates the
crap out of me. Especially when it comes from people of color.”

“I know. Like the new phrase they’ve invented for Latinos, the ‘majority-minority,’ since we’re becoming the largest so-called
ethnics.”

“I guess we’re never going to be just plain old Americans,” he said lightheartedly, laughing. I joined in. “How’s your head?”
he asked.

“My what?”

“Your headache?”

I forgot I had faked one. “Oh, it’s better,” I said, as we reached my Mustang. “This is me.”

Immediately, his face lit up. “Nice car. What is it? An ’80?”

I nodded, impressed. “It used to be my father’s. He gave it to me for my high school graduation.”

“Nice. I like old cars too. I got a ’76 Chevy Nova. Got it at a junkyard and fixed it up.”

“I hate those SUVs people are so crazy about these days,” I said.

“I know. It’s like they don’t understand the concept of depreciation.”

“All in the name of looking good when you’re riding down the street,” I added.

“I know, I know.”

I got into my car. I decided to be cordial despite his being a litterbug and a smoker. “Thanks for walking me.”

“You’re welcome.”

He closed the door for me, leaning against it for a while, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. Maya was right, he
was
kind of nice looking—if he shaved and changed into some decent clothes and maybe cut his hair. I started the car and rolled
down the window. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“If I say ‘no,’ you’ll probably give it to me anyway, right?”

“Give up the cancer sticks. They’re hazardous to your health.”

He smiled and spit out the cigarette and made an exaggerated production out of stepping on it like he was stomping it to death.

Before I could stop myself, a smile spread across my face.

IF WOMEN KNEW
how much power they possessed, they would probably take over the world—or at least take charge of their lives.
Even in high school, it always seemed like the girls had all the power. They had something guys wanted and they had the power
to make us wait for it as long as they wished. In the end, the majority of us never got what we were after. Somewhere between
the time following high school and early adulthood, women lost that power and the scales tilted in the other direction. They
allowed men to gain the power, believing they had lost the battle. So many of them were so anxious to fall in love and live
happily-ever-after, believing in a fantasy that didn’t really exist, that they gave in too easily. Somewhere down the line,
men caught on to women’s biggest secret, that they feared ending up alone, so men fed upon this knowledge and surpassed women.
They found that many women would put up with bad company, exploitation, even abuse, for the sake of showing everyone that
they had someone in their lives. The power of life and death might be on the tongue, but the power of happiness and discontent
was in the mind.

Just once, I wanted to meet a courageous sister who drew upon her strength, who knew what she wanted and would settle for
nothing less.

Take the Latin sister I met the night before, Eva. Instead of wearing her hair loose or in some crazy or phony hairstyle,
she had it up in a simple, curly ponytail. Where most of the women at the party, the ones who hadn’t worn costumes, had been
decked out in short revealing dresses or low-cut tops, trying too hard to draw men’s attentions, she had worn a long-sleeved
black blouse with black slacks. Plain, natural, but very chic.

However, she was definitely high-maintenance, but not in the way that required weekly trips to the beauty and nail salons.
She was the kind of woman you didn’t mess with if you wanted to live a quiet, uncomplicated life, without the drama that followed
the romantic stage in a relationship. I mean, to actually admit she was celibate to a total stranger, I knew her whole persona
was about shocking people just to get a reaction. If people couldn’t handle it, that was their problem. Usually, I took women’s
numbers so that I could decide whether to call them. I gave Eva my card to give her the power. The ball was in her court.
I already let my intentions be known: coffee, conversation—nothing more, nothing less. The next step was up to her.

Through the balcony’s plate-glass doors, I glanced at Luciano in my living room, flicking through the cable, bored because
Maya was unreachable at a picnic with her family.

I was lounging on a patio chair, reading over the twenty pages of new scenes on my laptop that I had typed earlier that morning.
After last night’s rain, the day was starting off humid and hot, just the way I liked it. Talking to Zephyr, the filmmaker-director-producer
at Simone’s party, had gotten my creative juices pumped and I had been up for the last three hours creating, hoping Luciano
would sleep late. However, depressed people didn’t sleep much so he was up with the sun. Intermittently, he attempted to start
a conversation, but I kept brushing him off. I didn’t want to talk to him or do anything for that matter but write. I loved
him like I would my own brother, if I had one, but I couldn’t wait until he left. I valued my privacy. I decided I wouldn’t
panic until I saw him bringing in the big guns—suitcases and furniture. Then I would have to act. I couldn’t live with anybody.

What I remembered most about Eva, what stuck in my mind, was that there was no obvious attraction on her part when we were
introduced. Either she really wasn’t interested or she was really good at hiding it. Luciano was right on one count; she did
resemble Maya. They had the same large dark eyes, the same facial structure, but Eva’s skin was darker, the color of chestnut,
and her hair was black, longer and with a tighter curl. Neither resembled the typical Hispanic girls I had seen, or the Latinas
in mainstream media, the ones that looked like Salma Hayek or Jennifer Lopez, and other Hollywood tokens. I supposed that
it was the same with other ethnic groups: When it came to beauty, the closer to the ideal, the more acceptable they were.

Not that Eva wasn’t attractive. She was pretty in a subtle way, like women who were good looking but didn’t make a big deal
about it. The kind that would catch your eye standing on the opposite side of the El platform or walking past a plate-glass
window as you sat in a restaurant. She reminded me of mixed Black girls, the ones who were part this, part that, with African
being the dominant factor in the equation. If I had seen her walking down the street, I would think she was a “sistah.” However,
I saw nothing but distrust in her huge brown eyes, and that crease in the middle of her forehead, perhaps from too much frowning,
made her look mean, almost evil. But then again, maybe it was the headache she claimed she had.

However, when she started debating with that other woman, I saw the fire in her eyes. I thought, now here is a woman who fights
battles with her tongue, a sister who would march for justice were marching still in vogue. Here is a woman who would command,
demand respect from a man—and get it. The problem was, women like her frightened men, and I was no exception. In talking to
her, I got a sense that she had a lot of unnecessary attitude she could do without, which was a little intimidating, but as
I said, my post-cancer radar saw right through her veneer and I knew it was a defense mechanism. Even if she was interested,
she wasn’t going to show it. Like any man, I liked a good challenge now and then, but she was a little too much. Like I said,
high-maintenance.

I thought of Chanel, the sister who handed me her card as soon as I walked into Simone’s place and whispered, “Call me.” And
then I remembered Zina, whom I had never called. I knew both of them would definitely be low-maintenance, no mystery there.

After leaving the party, I drove Luciano to his home again, but Lisa still wouldn’t let him in. She did come out of the house
to talk to him while I sat in the car praying she would take him back. When they were done, she went inside and he came to
the car with an overnight bag. I didn’t make any snide remarks about him moving in since I had made my position on sharing
my living space very clear on many occasions.

Before Sondra, I lived with Monica, a beautiful shapely paralegal who loved to walk around the house nude. Don’t get me wrong,
there was nothing wrong with walking around naked, especially since she had a beautiful body. I did it myself occasionally,
but the woman streaked every single minute of the day. From the moment she woke up in the morning, or walked into the house,
until she went to bed, off went the clothes. Her nudity was only part of the problem. She also never wore underwear—ever.
I had a problem picturing her at work with nothing underneath her skirt, working side by side with male coworkers. The kicker
was when she rolled over and went to sleep right after sex, which again, I did also. But since I used condoms, I had to get
up and clean up. When we were just dating, she used to jump in the shower with me; after she moved in, she hardly took showers.
Not that she smelled, but because I was raised to wash up as soon as you woke up, I found the whole skipping baths thing unsettling.
Europeans don’t bathe every day,
she used to argue.
You ain’t European, honey! You’re Black!
I finally yelled one day.

Anyway, that arrangement lasted three months and I considered myself a martyr for tolerating her that long. When I began to
smell another man on her, an overwhelming European musk cologne masking body odor, I thought, oh heck naw, this madness had
to end.

I also lived with a male roommate at one time, a guy I had known from college. He had women calling the house all day and
night long, coming in and out of his bedroom like a revolving door. I finally confronted him and told him it had to stop.
I needed my sleep and privacy and my steady girlfriend at the time was suspicious that his womanizing would rub off on me.
He accused me of being jealous of his Casanova status and refused to move out. I finally packed my stuff and left him with
the lease. That was four years ago, before I bought the loft.

“Hey, what’d you think of Eva?” Luciano called out, interrupting my train of thought.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

“You talked to her, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I gave her my card.”

“What’d you think?” Luciano prodded.

“She’s celibate.”

“What do you mean, she’s celibate? How do you know?”

“She told me.”