Playing Hard To Get

“Well…I’m happy you’re happy.” Troy smiled, noticing that Saptosa seemed a bit too elated to see her. It was far from uncommon for her to visit Kyle’s office before she left for the day. And each time she did this, she saw Saptosa’s friendly, yet busy smile. Something was very different.

“Is he in?”

“He sure is. Go right on in.”

?

Malik was placing a daisy in the fold of Tamia’s ear. Though she was busy saying how crazy he was for doing it, complaining that the stem was wet, she really liked the attention and how the activity itself forced Malik to lock his eyes on her face. In most of their conversations he’d been the militant man, the book reader, the cultural critic, but now, as they sat on the patio of a coffee shop, going over the specifics of his work with the Freedom Project, he was softening in a way that made her unintentionally lean into him.

“You should wear that in your hair for the rest of the day,” Malik said.

“A daisy? In my hair? To the office? Are you kidding me?” Tamia laughed. “I’m on company time, and if I want to remain on company time, it would be best if I don’t convince my employers that I’m crazy.”

“Crazy for wearing a daisy in your hair?”

“Yes!” Tamia exclaimed. “Unlike you, I can’t wear dashikis and cowrie shells to work. We have rules, standards.”

“I think one of those standards should be that you’re crazy if you don’t wear a daisy in your hair,” Malik said, snatching a daisy from another table and putting it in the fold of his ear. Both he and Tamia laughed.

“Always the rebel,” Tamia said as if she’d known Malik and his ways for years. And she felt that way. “So, tell me, rebel, how did you get mixed up in this situation?”

“Well—”

“And, before you start with your ‘I did it; I’m guilty’ revolutionary rap, I have to tell you, I’ve been watching you these past few weeks and it doesn’t seem like you would do that. The way you are with those kids, with the other people at the center, I just don’t believe it.”

Malik looked down at the table and folded his hands humbly before him.

“When Simeon came to me, he was homeless and hungry, robbing people on the street,” he said. “He tried to stick me up, but all I had to offer was the cowrie shells in my pocket and a chew stick.”

“No wallet?” Tamia asked.

“I don’t need a piece of animal skin and some cards to remind me of who I am and how I fit into the world,” Malik answered. “Anyway, Simeon was sure I was lying. He felt my pockets himself and then he tried to hit me with a gun. I grabbed his arm and asked him a question.”

“What?”

“I asked him if he was hungry. If he wanted something to eat,” Malik said. “And then he called me every name in the book and accused me of being gay. I snatched his gun and repeated my question. Three hours later, we were in the basement of the Freedom Project cleaning out a space where he could sleep.”

“Did you tell him he’d have to work and that you wouldn’t pay him?” Tamia asked, nervous about the answer, as she was now wrestling with the idea of purposefully losing Malik’s case.

“He’s a man. And men need to work for the things they have—that’s the only way they can appreciate it.”

“What did you say? What did you tell him?”

“Three hots and a cot. He could live in the basement of the project as long as he helped out during the day—cleaning and helping keep the place nice,” Malik explained. “He could take classes with the other boys and as soon as he found somewhere else to go, he could leave.”

“So, you never told Simeon he had to stay at the Freedom Project or forced him to do anything he didn’t want to do?”

“Never.”

?

There are few things that could prepare a wife for the psychological shock and awe of seeing another grown woman sitting in her husband’s lap. Auntie, grandmama, mother, sister, cousin who just got her legs cut off in a street fight—it doesn’t matter who or why, the situation is bound to break the bride down in some way she didn’t think was possible. And while Myrtle wasn’t exactly sitting in Kyle’s lap when Troy came pushing in the door, she may as well have been. Her rump was beside his on the couch that Troy had designated for her dreams of Kyle, his arm was around her shoulder, and her hands were clasped in his crotch…right in his crotch.

“Why does she hate me?” she cried into his lap, seeking comfort. Next, in the schedule in Myrtle’s mind, she was to collapse in a fit of sadness, bury her head there, and cry until Kyle lifted her. Then she’d lock eyes with him and go for a kiss. The plan was to make Troy look crazy and irrational, while she was the victim in need of Kyle’s support.

Troy heard Myrtle’s cries before Myrtle and Kyle realized she was standing there. She quickly rationalized that she could kill someone and Myrtle could be her first victim. Any fantasies she’d had about Myrtle being her friend were erased in that instant. Troy was silly, but she wasn’t slow. She knew seduction when she saw it and this woman was putting the moves on her husband.

“Hate is a strong wor—Oh, Troy!” Kyle looked to Troy and inched away from Myrtle a bit before she sat up.