Page 19 of Love Letters from a Libra
“Yeah, it’s right over there on the left,” I commented while washing my hands to make our drinks. I poured two glasses of bourbon and took them over to the couch. Zanaa returned and sat next to me.
“Here’s to getting to know you on a more personal level,”I proposed as we clinked glasses.
She sipped. “Mmhmm, this is smooth.”
“No doubt. I love a good aged bourbon,” I replied.
We sank into the music. There was intimacy in the air, our bodies still humming from the meditation class. That’s how the night began. We kept it light for the first thirty minutes.
“What’s your go-to for takeout?” I asked, leaning back, drink in hand.
She sucked her teeth. “It depends on my mood. Soul food when I’m happy, Thai when I’m healing from going through something, and sushi when I want to feel expensive.”
I chuckled. “That's wild.”
She side-eyed me. “What?”
“When you're feeling expensive. Hilarious.”
Zanaa smirked and sipped from her glass. “Okay, what about you?”
“There’s a Jamaican spot on Ninth. Their curry goat is sick. You definitely have to try it.”
She laughed. “Ooh, will do. Okay, I have a question. Do you believe in personality types?”
“You mean Myers-Briggs?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, Zodiac.”
“Depends,” I replied. Her eyebrows lifted. “Check this out, I have a theory. All Leos secretly want to be Virgos.”
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Yup. Deep down, they wish they had that quiet soul. But instead, they roar.”
“Yo, that’s insane, but now that you said it . . . I kind of believe you,” I said, laughing.
“Thank you.” She clinked her glass against mine like she’d won a debate.
Zanaa eyed my arm. “What’s the story behind your tattoo?”
I nodded, turning it so she could see it. “After my mom passed, I needed something to hold on to. The artist’s hands felt like prayer.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.”
We stayed quiet for a bit. “You close with your folks?”
She smiled. “Yeah, my grandma, Mama Tilda, is my heart. Every birthday, she made coconut cake from scratch. Then my mom, cousin, and auntie would dance around the kitchen in slippers. We’d do a Conga line in house shoes.”
“Sounds like joy.”
“It was.”
She looked at me for a long second. “You think people get more honest the later the night gets?”
I glanced at my half-full glass. “I think most folks want to be honest. They need to feel safe first.” Her smile softened. “That’s what I thought.”
From there, we talked about dumb stuff we did as young adults, mine involved a motorcycle and a break-up playlist. Hers involved a blunt, an ex, and a one-way ticket.
