Page 56 of Until the Ink Dries

I laughed. “No, no. I’m just saying. The only person’s chicken salad I rave about is my mama’s. Let me find out you might be competition.”

“Can I meet your mama before you pit me against her?”

“Youdohave to meet her.”

“I do. I’m sure your dad is sick of seeing my face.”

I giggled. “My parents are chill. They might ask a few questions, but that’s just to make sure there is no funny business. Other than that, they don’t have much to say about what I do or who I do it with.”

“How did they feel about your boyfriend?”

“He’s no longer my boyfriend, remember? And they liked him well enough, I guess. They’ve never said anything bad about him to me. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Ellis.” I forked a helping of pasta salad onto my fork and held it to his lips. “I want to focus on me, you, and having a good time.”

I cupped his chin and leaned in to kiss him. I could never grow tired of kissing him. His lips were always soft and his breath was always fresh.

“I can do that,” he said as we parted.

“Good,” I said, feeding him the pasta. “Now, tell me about this chicken salad.”

Our picnic was beautiful.

The food was great.

The conversation was never lacking. After finishing what we could of our meal, he packed up the basket and reached for me. I made myself comfortable between his legs with my back to his front.

Laughter filled the air as we shared stories of our childhood. I never would have imagined we grew up so similarly. It felt good to talk to a man that could relate to my blackness. Sometimes, talking to Ellis felt like talking to a brick wall.

He grew up in a predominantly white area with mostly white friends. He missed a lot of social cues. He didn’t understand most of my humor. He didn’t listen to the same music or eat the same foods I did.

I made that man a plate of neck bones and rice and he looked disgusted that I would serve him such rubbish. I loved listening to old school music on full blast while I cleaned the house on Saturday mornings. The sounds of Aretha, the Isley Brothers, and Luther were a staple in my home.

He’d always ask me to turn it down or put on something less… for a lack of a better word, ethnic. It got to the point where I didn’t clean when he was over. The house would be dead silent… just the way he liked it.

Benny understood.

Benny was hip to our culture.

Benny was in touch with his roots. It was so refreshing.

Currently, we were listening to the sweet sounds of Uncle Sam’s “I Don’t Ever Wanna See You Again.”

“This is hitting a little too close to home,” I jested as I sang along.

“But you’re singing it.”

“Cause this is my song!”

I belted out a horrible rendition of the song, causing him to cover my mouth with his hand.

“Don’t quit your day job, baby.”

“Oh, whatever!”

I playfully shoved him onto his back.

“You gon’ stop putting your hands on me, woman.”

I straddled his lap and leaned into him. “Or what?”

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