Page 17 of João
“Hello, João? How are you?”
“Better now,” I said, understanding she’d assume it was a vapid compliment when I meant every damn word.
“Oh, really? Me too, actually. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Next Friday. Be ready by six thirty.”
“Again you trying to boss me? I thought we talked about that?”
“Did we? I have no recollection of that. Dress formal. See you then, Peace,” I said to her, the pet name slipping out. Somehow, in the midst of what my life had become, Gisele signified the type of peace I thought never achievable for a man like me. But now that I had it in my grasp, there was no way I’d let go.
“I…did you just call me Peace? Like as an endearment?”
“I did. Some people call each other sweethearts, but you feel like peace every time I talk to you.”
Her hitched breath hit me hard, my pulse ratcheting to match her uneven breathing.
“That’s…I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Nothing to say, my peace. I’ll see you Friday.”
the theater
JOÃO
Ornate gold molding adorned the balcony with its plush red velvet cushions, serving as an exquisite background to Gisele’s brilliance. Tonight, elegance and style conspired, showcasing her in a bejeweled long-sleeved belted dress, ending in a cascade of fabric as midnight black faded to a cream tulle skirt. So demure yet enticing, the V-neck revealed nothing besides the promise of a body made for late-night cuddles, her decadent curves the only pillow I’d ever need. Not knowing what she’d wear, I still ended up complimenting her with my tan suit and black shirt. Escorting her to our box, feeling how well she allowed me to guide her through the throng of people filled me with an indescribable sense of invincibility.
“I swear we live in the same city, but clearly not the same circles. How’d you hear about this?” Gisele asked after resting the event’s program in her lap.
“One of our members did the light design for the show. An all-Black performance ensemble-only opera… I thought that would be something you’d enjoy.”
Gisele’s unaffected shyness made her look down, but after a beat, she held my gaze with a pleased smile.
“You were right. I’ve never seenLa Traviata, but I remember being fascinated withLa Dame aux Caméliaswhen I read it as a teenager.”
The lights dimmed and I reached across the seat, holding my palm up without hesitation. The soft skin of her hands grazed mine and her warm hold settled as the first notes of the opera began.
Gisele floated next to me, transported to the stage where the singers’ powerful voices filled the theater with the hungry longing of star-crossed lovers. Her chest rose and fell in the shadows of our booth as Violetta wrote her farewell letter to Alfredo, trying to do the right thing. Her faint sniffles burrowed inside of me, tears of passion, tears of being completely in the moment. I envied her that. A bottomless yearning to make her focus on me took over, and I pressed her hand down, digging my fingers into her soft skin.
She gasped at the faint pressure, turning her tear-stricken face to me.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” I reached out in a trance, softness and wetness seeping through my fingers, the feel of her cheek bringing an explosion of heat in my stomach.
“I know…it’s just so beautiful and so sad,” she whispered back, matching the tenderness I gifted her by nestling her cheek in my palm. With deliberate softness, I glided my fingers toward her neck until my hand circled right under her gathered hair.
“Breathe, Gisele, it’s just fiction,” I reminded her.
“Is it, though? Isn’t this a story told a million times over?” she said sadly, then closed her eyes as the last notes of the song echoed through her.
“But it’s not yours,” I said with certainty.
“I always wondered what it would be to live so freely…with so much love inside, love to make you do wild things. Love for yourself so deep that you’d live your life authentically…”
“Look at me,” I urged her, a need to reassure her making me dizzy with untapped pleasure.
Her eyelashes fanned open immediately, and in the darkness of the theater, she let me see all that passion she had bottled inside of her, hidden beneath her demure clothes and prayers and Bible.
“It’s not yours. Your story’s not done. Do you understand?” My voice roughened and Gisele vibrated under my touch, under my veiled command.
