Playing Hard To Get

“By the power of Grayskull,” Kyle shouted solemnly, raising the pretend sword over her body. “I must save She-Ra, the princess of power!” He dropped his weapon and proceeded to use his other sword three times into the morning to fight the forces of evil and save the damsel’s life. She called his name so loud, the neighbors and theirs beside them complained of children watching cartoons too loud.

When Troy recovered from her injuries and was awakened by the sun coming in the window beside the bed, she looked to see that Kyle was awake too.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked. They were naked.

“No. I don’t want to wake up,” Kyle answered. His eyes wide, he looked from the window to his wife. She pecked him on the chest.

“Thank you,” he said, “not for the kiss. For everything.”

“No,” Troy started, “don’t say that. Don’t ever, ever say that. What you wanted was what anyone would want. What everyone has a right to want from the people they love?

?to be accepted for who they are, where they are, and for what they want.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, honey.”

Kyle kissed Troy passionately and feeling his tingling again, he turned her onto her back and ran his hand between her thighs.

“Again?” she asked.

“I said I don’t want to wake up,” Kyle replied as they laughed.

“But we don’t have on our costumes anymore,” Troy said as one of her nipple covers fell from the ceiling.

“We don’t need them. We don’t need anything.” Kyle kissed her again. “Wait a minute!”

“What?”

“Did you know She-Ra was He-Man’s sister?”

“Really?” Troy covered her mouth in shame. “So…we just…?”

Kyle nodded.

“But the man at the store told me that…” Troy tried, but she was laughing again.

“Don’t blame it on the man at the store,” Kyle teased. “I said I wanted it freaky, but not that freaky.”

?

Tasha was right. The wig was a perfect fit. It looked just like Tamia’s old hair, straight and beautiful, bouncing and behaving. And the suit Troy picked out, black, a single-button jacket and classic trouser, was standout and made Tamia look like she was in charge of everything she walked past. The perfect sling-back heels, a matching bag with a golden chain-link strap, Versace perfume, freshly manicured fingernails, and a face painted to perfection, Tamia once again became the 3T they knew—and perhaps she was better, perhaps more confident, perhaps more powerful, perhaps more brilliant.

These were the things Tamia said to herself as she stood in the elevator, descending the levels of Trump Towers with a latte in one hand and an attaché case holding Malik’s file in the other. The late summer sun was up now and the stage was set for a grand performance.

“No subway this morning, madame?” Bancroft asked, extending his hand to Tamia to guide her to the taxicab he was holding for her. He was surprised she’d phoned ten minutes earlier to request the car.

Tamia smiled introspectively, memories of the subway, Miss Lolly and her hula-hoop, and Badu and his incense, pulling her for a moment from her focus.

“No, Bancroft,” she said. “I probably won’t be taking the subway for a while now.” There was no emotion in her voice.

“Duly noted.” He nodded and helped her into the car. “Might I say a word?” he asked before closing the door.

“Sure.” Tamia looked at him. It was the first time she’d ever heard Bancroft use the word “I,” and his usual stiffened demeanor was softened.

“While I think you look lovely today, I preferred your look yesterday. The change suited you. I think it was the first time I ever really saw your beauty.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Tamia said, stunned. His remarks were so intimate, Tamia was thinking she was hearing his real voice for the first time and she wasn’t sure Bancroft was even from England. “I guess I didn’t think anyone here cared about who I really am.”