Page 56 of Out of Office

Genevieve turned around in her panties and bra with a quirked brow.

“What advances?” Her eyes twinkled in mischief.

“Graciosa.” I leaned against the door frame, watching her put on an olive jumpsuit over a white tee. It looked like overalls on top with wide legs at the bottom. No words were said between us and it felt absolutely comfortable. For all that I was having a hard time adjusting to living in a new country, this? This was perfection. Being with Genevieve, actually fulfilling the simple wishes I had for our lives together?

Perfection.

She pulled her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, then added some hoops and a Cuban link to the ensemble.

“Ready?” She turned around. “What you are wearing is perfect for what we are doing.”

She gestured at my mustard-colored shorts and white T-shirt and gave me a thumbs-up.

“Oh, that reminds me of our drive to Colón that fateful day,” I drawled, mimicking her awkward face and thumbs-up of that day.

The thumb tucked in, then another finger made its way out.

“Damn, it’s like that now?” I asked, laughing.

“You, sir, are not jumping for joy at my adventure.”

“What adventure, Preciosa? You just came in, gave me the quickest striptease of my life, then robbed me of the opportunity to thank you because you put your clothes back on. That’s all I know,” I protested.

Her brows scrunched in exasperation, morphing to a satisfied grin. Her beautiful dark cheeks plumped until her eyes crinkled with triumph.

“I’m taking you sightseeing.”

“I realized I hadn’t really shown you around since you arrived,” Gen said as she maneuvered her car on I-95. Even though it wasn’t rush hour, there were so many vehicles on the road. In that regard Panamá and Miami were the same. Never a time where you could enjoy empty roads unless late at night, and even then you had to be wary of partygoers.

“You haven’t, but you’ve been busy I get it,” I said, touched that she’d prioritized this time for the two of us. It felt good to be out and about with her, during daylight.

“It’s no excuse, I’ve been an atrocious host, but no worries Señor Nicolas, I’ll be guiding you around today.”

“Oh, so you are my driver?”

“And tour guide.” She smiled as she focused on the road. Genevieve’s joy was infectious and damn sexy. After getting off the highway, she deftly took us to an area I hadn’t seen before.

“Where are we?”

“Overtown. Here let’s find somewhere to park.”

We drove down a street with short trees adorning the edges. The area had smaller buildings, some well painted, some dilapidated, and in every block there were Black people either catching public transportation or walking about their business. Miami was a very diverse city, and everywhere I’d been so far I’d seen a mix of races and cultures, but here, here it felt closer to home. Closer to Colón.

“Why are we here?” I asked her when she parked her vehicle in an open parking spot. As soon as we got out of the car, I was glad for the shorts. The sun beamed over us, heating my skin.

“I am probably going to mangle a lot of the story, but, this is Overtown, which used to be Colored Town back in 1896 during the Jim Crow era. Many Black people from the Carolinas, Georgia, North Florida, Alabama, and the Bahamas came to work for the railroad and the rich land in Coconut Grove, but when Miami became incorporated as a city, because of segregation laws, they needed a colored area.”

We walked down the same street we’d driven, with some parking lots, what seemed to be smaller apartment buildings, and enclosed lots with fences. This was more of how I had imagined living in the South would feel based on movies I’d seen while young. I admired the low-hanging trees casting cool shadows to hide away from the sun, and the slower pace, as if this street stood in a time capsule.

Gen walked with purpose until she paused in front of a white house.

“See when Flagler, as they say, founded the area, Black folks helped alongside everyone, but the moment it became a city...it was a wrap. No longer could they live where they worked. We were given this area northwest of the developed city. At the beginning...it was rough, but you know us,” she said, taking out her cell phone and shooting a video of the house ending with a close-up. She was brilliant at it, and I wondered what her post would be on social media after our visit. Her tips to Black women travelers were gaining traction online and her following had expanded. I stared unabashedly at her, in awe.

“We always find a way.” I nodded, following her thoughts. I studied the two-story old wooden house behind her with ivory walls and brown roof. Easily spotted were the areas that had been modernized, from the windows to the upper balcony, but the structure still maintained that older feel.

“My weekends with Mama, after Dad left, were mostly about doing homework. But sometimes she’d bring me here to walk around, when this area had not one spec of gentrification, and it wasn’t updated as it is now. This is the house of Dana A. Dorsey. Mom and I would stand in front of it, and she’d tell me that he was the first Black millionaire in South Florida. She’d explain how he was also a civic leader, creating housing for Black workers here in Colored Town, which in the 1920s people started calling the Harlem of the South. He had a dream and he never stopped chasing it. People like him opened the doors for people like you and I, she’d tell me.” Gen shaded her eyes from the powerful sunbeams and watched the house for a while.

As she watched the house, I watched her. Her dark skin gleamed under the sunlight, as she shared a glimpse of what and who she was. Every little morsel delicious and exhilarating.

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