NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire Vol 17.2: Fall 2017 | Page 12
“Tell me about it.” And she proceeded
to tell me about it — the blind men
who could suddenly see as she passed
near, the preachers who found hiding
places for their Bibles, the young men
pressing two hands to their crotches
at the sight of her. Just standing at a
crosswalk, waiting for the light to
change, wind whipping the hem of
her skirt well above her knees — such
a simple sight caused near accidents.
Then she told me about the ones with
real class who took her to places —
casinos, theater, boat cruises, the one
who bought her nice leather goods
stamped with names she learned to
pronounce. One or two might have
even proposed marriage, she could not
rightly recall the number. She turned
them down without hurting their
feelings, landing them in a pillow of
friendship. For years on her birthday
they would send two dozen perfect
roses with puzzling pleas for forgiveness.
“How do I know when it gets to four?”
I had asked.
“Only through another scan of your
heart.”
“In the meantime what do I do or
don’t do?”
“Don’t worry, first of all. You can’t
exercise or eat this one away.” He had
nodded twice. “It may never grow.”
Second and third opinions were in
my future.
She was looking at me now with a
half-smile. “I can guess your question.
‘How come you’re sitting out here on
a park bench talking with a stranger
about the past and not living high on
the hog?’— as my grandma used to put
it. Huh, ain’t that what you saying to
yourself right now?”
She gestured for another cigarette. I let
her take one but did not join her this
time. Trying to cut back and all.
“I just don’t go around telling my life
story to every good looking man come
along.” She exha