Under the Sunset Series: Jade

 

Art By: Itay Magen

Under the Sunset Series is a series of short stories I write using visual art depictions of Black women or girls as my prompt/inspiration.

Disclaimer: Adult Content

“You must dream in color beloved. Liberate yourself from the mental slavery of dreaming in black and white.”
 
I closed my eyes and sighed. I knew I should’ve swiped left when I saw the bio on his profile read, GRAND RISING QUEENS. I can’t do these HOTEP Dr. Umar clones who talk like an African American Studies Department failed mix tape. I wish the waitress would hurry up with my oysters so I can to-go box my way up on out of here.
 
“You tired queen? Don’t close your eyes or you'll miss the sunset.”
 
I was impressed he had called ahead to reserve our table by the window. I’m a sucker for good oysters and good views.
 
“Jade, just call me Jade.”
 
“Sorry, Jade.”
 
“I’m not tired, I am just breathing.”
 
“You a Yogi?”
 
“No. I just like air in my lungs.”
 
He becomes visibly disheveled and sips his Modelo. Am I being too judgy?
 
“Riverbank has been a restaurant on my list to visit for some time now. Thank you for setting all of this up.”
 
“Not a problem beautif- sorry, Jade. You said anywhere with good oysters and good views.”
 
“My mantra.”
 
We laugh.
 
He’s cute, I can’t even lie and got that manly grooming thing going. You know, the beard-to-chin ratio is perfectly proportioned. Freshly shaped-up. Skin the shade of onyx, not one blemish. I wonder how many women have given him the blackberry sap skin regimen? And he got the nerve to have dimples and pearly, non-veneered, whites. If he stopped the faux Amiri Baraka shit, I might let him –
 
“So, tell me, what are your hopes and dreams beloved…I mean Jade?”
 
“Can you turn that off?”
 
“Turn what off?”
 
“That HOTEP shit!”
 
The waitress approaches with the server assistant who gently places the oysters in front of me and the lobster bisque in front of Grade D Stokely Carmichael.
 
“Is everything looking ok,” the waitress asks.
 
“Perfect,” I say.
 
“Could I get another Modelo,” he asks.
 
Uh oh, I hope I’m not driving ghetto Bishop Tutu to drink.
 
“Absolutely!” “Can I get you another glass of Prosecco,” she asks me. “Umm, no. Can I do an Old Fashioned instead?”
 
Because there’s gonna be an uprising in this grand rising, if I don’t have something stronger, I thought.
 
“Absolutely! So, another Modelo and an Old Fashioned. Can I get your entrees started?”
 
He looks at me, giving me the go-ahead.
 
I knew what I wanted to order last week when he asked me out but pretended like I was indecisively scouring the menu.
 
“Yes, um…hmmm…let me get the stuffed Branzino with the brussels and fennel-jicama-pepper salad. Can I also get the seafood mash?”
 
“Good choice,” she said. “And you, sir?”
 
“I’ll take the Paella. Can I also get a house salad? No tomatoes please.”
 
“Absolutely! House Dressing ok?”
 
“Yep! Thank you.”
 
She takes our menus.
 
I thought all the HOTEP niggas like ranch dressing but go off “king.” I chuckled internally.
 
I closed my eyes, put my head down, and began saying grace to myself. I suddenly felt his hand touch mine. Shocked, I open my eyes.
 
“Jade, I don’t mean to interrupt but I can’t let you pray over your food alone and silently at that. Mind if I join you?”
 
“Depends on who you praying to.”
 
He smirks, “I am a Christian.”
 
“Ok, then.”
 
He grabs my hands. I close my eyes.
 
“God, thank you for this meal and the hands that prepared it. May it be of nourishment to our bodies. Thank you for the company and may our time together foster a genuine friendship. In Jesus name, I pray, Amen.”
 
I open my eyes.
 
Oh, he’s a prayer. Noted.
 
He has his eyes on his bisque. He tastes it and nods his head in approval. His dimples are sneaky and appear with minor effort on his part. Show off.
 
My oysters are perfection.
 
“Would you like to try this lobster bisque? It’s amazing.”
 
All I could think was that I’d be sipping the backwash of a Section 8 Minister Farrakhan. Absolutely not.
 
“No, no thank you. Would you like an oyster?”
 
“Hmmm, you know I’ve never had oysters before.”
 
I wasn’t surprised.
 
I took my fork and pulled out the charbroiled oyster from its shell, reached across the table, and fed it to him. I really wanted to see what that mouth-
 
 “Here, try it, they are delicious.”
 
 “Mmmm,” he grunted while chewing.
 
He grabbed his napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. Real dainty like HOTEP nigga.
 
“We gotta order another round of those,” he said.
 
I laughed. I had already planned too.
 
He sips his Modelo while looking me in the eyes. His eyes were pristine and innocent. My Nanny used to say, “The life you live shows up on your face so be intentional with the life you choose to live.” I could tell under all the BLM poster child BS he lived a good life and was a decent human being. But probably still a fuck boy.
 
I look out the window.
 
“Stop evading,” he says.
 
“Excuse me?”
 
“I ask you questions you one answer me. I give you compliments you redirect me. I look you in your eyes you turn your head the other way. Stop evading connection.”

Did this nigga just Kevin Samuels me?
 
“Okay, one Old Fashioned for you and another Modelo for you,” the waitress interrupts and sits our drinks on the table. “The entrees should be out soon. Is there anything else I can get you in the meantime?”
 
“Oysters” we both say at the same time, look at each other, and start laughing.
 
“Oysters, you got it!” She takes our used dishes away.
 
“Cheers,” he raises his glass. “To a beautiful woman who is a professional evader.”
 
I lift my glass.
 
“And cheers to you, a handsome overly woke joke.”
 
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he puts down his Modelo “What you mean?”
 
“All of this queen this, grand rising that it’s giving a woke Staph infection and I’m tired. Stop it.”
 
He laughs. “Wow, really?”
 
“Yeah, really. Just talk naturally and then maybe I can connect with who you really are.”
 
“Well, here’s to connecting to who we really are,” he raises his glass.
 
“Cheers.”
 
We toast.
 
The conversation got better. A lot better. We had drinks, ate a few dozen oysters, had our entrees boxed up to go, and shared the warm butter cake with butter pecan ice cream. As the sun began to set, I felt calm. This was nice. Maybe too nice.

A live band began playing, he grabbed my hand, pulled me to the dance floor, and held my body...close. He smelled like bergamot and patchouli. The audacity! He whispered nothingness in my ear. After every whisper, he managed to brush his soft lips across my neck. I released my neck, let my head hang back, and my eyelids rest. The man knew what he was doing, he knew.

“Let’s go,” I whispered.

I mean I didn’t even care at this point where we were going but we were leaving up out of there! He was going to Malcolm X by any means necessary me tonight.
 
I Uber’d to Riverbank so I was pleasantly surprised to see his Rover with camel colored seats driven up by valet.
 
“I can take you home Jade just give me your address.”
 
“You know I am not trying to go home. Stop it.”
 
I mean sometimes you just gotta say the thing. Small talk is pointless.
 
“Cool,” he smiled.
 
There goes those dimples again.
 
“It doesn’t have to be fancy or a long-drawn-out thing just…take me.”
 
“Ok, cool,” he says.
 
He drove about 20 minutes to the overlook above Lake George Village and parked.
 
“Views,” he says.
 
I unbuckle my seatbelt and climb over to his seat.
 
“Here is where I-I am not sure what happened. My memory. I-I am having a bit of troub-”
 
“Jade, you are going to have to give me more information than this. You’ve been on the Cortez case since you joined the Bureau! This was our first interaction with the suspect! What the hell happened?”
 
“Chief, I-I…I don’t know.”