In a true relationship
Bitter . . . that’s me
I opened my eyes, which I had clamped shut at some point halfway through, and there was an eerie silence over the entire place for a few seconds. Then there was mass applause and cheers . . . from the women. A few men clapped and many were shaking their heads and crossing their arms in defiance. Their egos were bruised, but they knew that I had spoken nothing but the truth. They were going to learn that day.
As I walked off the stage, Queen Aishah came up to announce the next poet. She grinned at me and whispered, “You said that! That was some real shit right there!”
When I returned to my seat at the bar, there was a man sitting on the stool next to mine. I hadn’t noticed him before. I wondered if he had come in while I was performing. He was almost like a giant—at least six five compared to my five-two height. Even though he was sitting, I could tell that he was like a tree. He had a smooth, dark-chocolate complexion, eyes the shade of almonds, a polished fade, and he wore rimless eyeglasses.
The bartender came over to me. “Need anything else?”
“Can I have another chocolate martini, please?”
The guy kept staring at me and I wondered if he was about to go off on me about what I had said onstage.
After another minute or two, once my fresh drink was in front of me, I could not take the stares anymore. There was an older woman onstage reciting a poem about the joys of menopause and moving on to the next stage of life. He was not paying attention to her at all. He was too busy watching my every move.
“The entertainment is that way.” I pointed toward the stage. “I’m finished with my performance.”
He grinned and exposed a beautiful smile and straight teeth. “I enjoyed your piece. ‘Bitter,’ wasn’t it?”
I rolled me eyes. Here it comes! “Yes, it was called ‘Bitter.’ That’s what I am.”
“I kind of figured that, and it’s such a shame.”
He looked me up and down like I was on display. I was hoping that my face wasn’t shiny from having been underneath the hot lights, even momentarily.
“You’re too beautiful, sassy, and intriguing to be bitter over a man from your past.”
“Actually, you stand corrected. I am bitter regarding several men from my past. All of the men from my past. Not a single one of them appreciated any of the goodness in me until after I was gone.”
“So now the rest of us men can forget it, huh?”
I took a sip of my drink and analyzed what he was implying with his question. The Virgo in me kicked in. One thing is a definite trait among Virgos—we overthink and overanalyze like crazy. On the one hand, I was sick of men to a degree. At least the whimsical fantasy that one man could make a commitment to one woman and do the right thing by her. On the other hand, I loved sex and the specimen sitting beside me was most certainly a candidate for some freaky sex.
He kept looking at me as the menopausal broad left the stage. “Well?”
“I never said that no man has a chance with me. All I’m saying is that I’m not going to be so quick t
o throw my heart on the line again, unless a man presents himself correctly and is done with playing games. You feel me?”
“Somewhat.” He took a long guzzle from his draft beer. “But you have to realize that not all men have to be done with playing games. Some of us have never played them.”
I smirked. “That’s what you all say. All of you proclaim to be honest, trustworthy, and interested in settling down, up and until you get into a woman’s panties and move on to the next one.”
“Wow, someone has really hurt you!”
“Several someones have trampled all over me. They’ve treated me like a piece of disposable pussy or a deer that has already been hit in the road. Instead of picking me up and trying to resuscitate me, or better yet, leaving me the hell alone to suffer in silence, they run over me again and try to finish the job that the previous dude started.”
He shook his head and frowned. “It would probably be in my best interest to move to the other side of the bar and wish you a good evening.”
I shrugged. “Probably would be.”
He sat there for a few more seconds, still staring.
“Probably would be,” I repeated.
“Yes, probably.” He chuckled. “But instead, I’d like to pay for your drinks and ask if you’d like to head someplace quieter so we can continue this fascinating discussion.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Tevin Harris.”