Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“I’m lookin’ forward to seeing you tomorrow night, Caspian.”
“I’m lookin’ forward to it too, God.”
“God?”
“…The Black woman is God, remember?”
And then he disconnected the call…
Chapter Six
Brazeiros was an amazing Brazilian Steakhouse on South 4th Street, in Louisville. When in town, Caspian would sometimes venture there, taking his Aunt Angel, Noah, and Uncle Bobby along. Now, he was waiting at a table—alone. He hadn’t thought about how it would feel to go by himself after so many years with his family. It didn’t strike him until right then as he observed local folks dressed in their best sweaters and dresses, marching around the extensive salad bar and vying for savory meats the gauchos brought along on platters and skewers.
He glanced at his Rolex watch—the same model he’d bought Legend some years back.
She’s late.
After his water glass was refreshed, he went through his work emails, replying to certain time sensitive ones that needed his attention. At last, he heard a voice in the distance. He lifted his gaze to see Azure by the host stand. His mouth twitched, and his heart beat a bit faster. She was wearing a red leather jacket and color-matched turtleneck. She said something to the hostess, then turned in his direction. Her lips curled and she raised her hand to wave.
Placing his napkin and phone down, he stood from his seat as she approached.
“Hi there, handsome.” She leaned in, wrapped one arm around him, and kissed his cheek. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.” It was a problem, he hated tardiness, but she was an artist. What did he expect? Before he could pull out her chair, one of the gauchos raced to her and did the honors.
“Thank you,” she said, getting comfortable. The waiter asked about her drink order. “Um, water is fine for now. Thanks.”
Caspian sat back down and placed his phone in his jacket pocket. The entire area now smelled like her. Light and airy, yet rich and sophisticated. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so taken by a woman.
“I must admit, I was quite impressed with your resume,” he began, folding his hands. “I’d love to see some of your work.”
“I figured you bein’ a journalist and all, and knowin’ my name now, you’d be the curious sort and already took it upon yourself to check me out.” She grabbed the wine menu and perused it. “I know I did the same with you. You’re a damn good writer. I read a few of your articles. Your podcast is also incredible. I think you know that, though. I’ve seen some of your back-and-forths with your critics. You’re ruthless.”
He ran his hand across his cropped beard and chuckled.
“I’m in a competitive field. I defend what I do ’cause I believe in it. As far as checkin’ on you—yeah, I did.”
“I knew it.” She offered the faintest of smiles, her gaze still fixed on the wine menu.
“That ain’t the same as seeing it in person though. I want to see your art with my own eyes. It’s like talkin’ to you on the phone. It was nice, but this is better.” Her smile got wider then, though she still didn’t make eye contact. “Can I be honest with you, Azure?”
“I would settle for nothin’ less.” She placed the wine menu down and looked him in the eye with those gorgeous peepers of hers. “What is it?”
“I just wanna be open and frank is all, get some things on the table.”
“What? You’re married?” She rolled her eyes. “Because if you are, I’m going to eat this food on yo’ dime, then march my ass right out of here, and you better not call me again. Ever.”
“Nah, that’s not my style. I’m sure married men hit on you though. You’re beautiful… hard to resist.”
“I don’t care what the reason is. I don’t fuck wit’ no married men.”
“Who else don’t you fuck with?”
“No engaged men. No men with girlfriends. I don’t mess wit’ so-called formerly gay or bisexual men, either, because they’ll always want somethin’ I can’t give them, and I believe in folks livin’ their truth. I don’t mess wit’ men who ego trip twenty-four-seven. I seem to attract that sort, but I need that ego checked at the door. I don’t mess wit’ men who want me to be the man of the relationship but complain when I take the reins. I don’t mess with men shorter than five-foot-eight. Not because I don’t find shorter men attractive, I do actually, but because they tend to have Napoleon complexes and I am not on that shit. Again, ego trippin’.
“I am not in existence to be dominated. Subservient. Obedient like some dog. I am in existence to be complimented, an equal to my partner. I don’t mess wit’ men who aren’t truthful. All men lie. All people lie. I am talkin’ about lying being a part of their personality. That’s a big turn off. Lyin’ just to be lyin’. I don’t want a man without a job. I don’t want a man with no ambition and drive. I don’t want a man who scoffs at the idea of being a provider. I don’t want to date any rappers, dancers, comedians, singers, musicians, or concert promoters. Been there, done that. It’s constant bullshit. I don’t wanna deal wit’ men who don’t appreciate art. I don’t want a man who is a scaredy cat, afraid to throw a punch or pull a trigger. Afraid of their own shadows even. Men who can’t stand strong in their manhood when in the presence of a woman who stands strong in her womanhood.