A white man was sitted by a black girl. A good-looking white man. A white man to whom she was all dressed up and feverish over. When they walked into the small theatre of the museum, with its spotess floor and smooth benches of the dark brown variety, they were sitted infront of the screen – that was running short videos on the arts, crafts and owner. He has got up, without so much as a word of warning, and walked to the back of the theatre and sat, with his back to the wall. She has pitter-pattered over, with tiny feet, laughing nervously, unaware his real intention was “to get a load of” the two Swedish girls, all blonde and blue eyes, who were sitted across from there. His eyes were not just sneaking a look at them, they were aiming at them. Like optical scud-missiles filled with emotional coded messages. “Here I am”, the looks said, “with a black girl. But… I don’t have to be”. The girls have received message and understood. They have looked uncomfortable, choosing to toy with their phones’ keyboards than concentrate on the screen. Embarrassed, it seemed, on her behalf. After they got up and left, the white man turned towards the black girl, as if suddenly aware of her existence; her sitting next to him, full of girly hopes and broken smiles. His knees playfully knocked against her thighs. Trying to wake her up, it seems, wake her from the unreality she has just witnessed, an unreality that has left her shaken, into a warm… uncomplicated dream. His hand reached to grab hers, and to squeeze it. “Here I am,” it tried to say, “with a black girl. With whom I chose to be”.
They walked out of the theatre. Not the way they came, with her hand in his arms; playful and anticipating. But isolated. It was raining outside. A cold rain! He offered her his over-coat, trying to slow pace with her burdened feet; as if he was still attempting to put them back together into the semblance of a couple. She chose to hug herself and shiver. [Because, when all is said and done, you really only have yourself to be there for you.]
Later in the evening, after a passionate tirade against a mutual enemy has rushed some of the warmth back into their conversation, he hugged her tightly, shook her a little and said “[you]–tried to touch an exhibit.in.a.museum!”. It took her aback, for it was an incident she has forgotten about until that moment. An incident she has thought was a cute “human” moment, like a man farting when about to cum; a “hatishu!” and “God bless you!” moment.
It has bothered him! More so, obviously, than her asking if he was checking those girls out, her refusing to take his hand, wear his over-coat, return his kiss. As if it was the last straw that broke this camel’s back. A magnifying glass that showed all the acne on the “relationship”, and the person she can never be. She smiled and continued to keep her eyes on the tv screen. [For, when all is said and done, this is a man’s world. And a woman is like a dog trying to catch the crumbs that fall from the children’s table [of a bread they didn’t build : – ). In the hopes.. perhaps.. that, one day, the Granter of Requests would say “Woman, you have great faith! Your request is granted!”]. Chasing crumbs… running behind farmers to glean left-over grains.. even as her “earthly master” [the pouting/whining/kicking/screaming kid], the man, boils her whole person down to a word.. a place .. a name: a cunt, a pussy, a bitch. Or, to quote my little cousin Nani from her kindergarten days, a:
Death comes to us all, mine author says. But at what price!