Page 100 of Madam, May I

“Same to you,” he said, tapping his cane on the floor.

She recognized him as her neighbor but had no clue as to his name.

“I overheard you’re headed to the Met,” he said.

Desdemona nodded. “Yes. I’m celebrating, and I honestly couldn’t think of any other place I’d rather be tonight,” she said.

“Enjoy and congratulations,” he said.

“Thank you.”

And later, when she sat in her parterre alone, having purchased all five of the seats in the pseudo-private box, she was very clear and proud of her personal growth. To think of fifteen-year-old Desdemona—Desi to her parents—struggling to live on the streets and fight off both hunger and danger now a woman sitting in the Metropolitan Opera about to watch a performance made her proud.

I been through it and today was huge for me. Huge. And now I sit here, feeling beautiful, feeling a little bit more whole, doing something I want, alone and okay with that.

“Hello.”

Desdemona looked to her right to find a tall, slender, brown-skinned man with salt-and-pepper hair and goatee. “How you doing?” she asked, seeing several of the people in the parterre with him looking at them with open curiosity. “Hello, everyone.”

He chuckled and moved from his plush velvety maroon seat to the one next to the low-slung partition. He cleared his throat and crossed his legs, adjusting the hem of his tailored suit pants. He motioned with her head for her to move closer to the partition as well.

He was mid-forties and fine. And rich. She could tell. The cut of the suit. The subtle jewelry and Piaget watch.

She eyed the closed curtains as she set her purse on the seat to her left and shifted over to the seat on her right next to the divider. The scent of his cologne reached her. Nice. Warm. Subtle.

But not Loren.

“How can I help you?” she asked, crossing her legs as well.

“Trevor King,” he said, extending his hand.

Desdemona shook it with her own. She wanted so badly to present her real name. Step into her own identity once and for all. “Alisha Smith,” she offered instead, feeling a little of her black girl joy dim.

“This is a work function for me, but I would like to exchange info and take you to dinner,” he said, speaking only for her ears.

Fresh breath. A plus.

Her hand was still in his and it felt warm, not offensive. But not Loren.

This same touch from him would have me palpitating, light-headed, and weak. Our chemistry was dizzying, and my love was lasting.

She eyed this grown man, already established in the world, and wondered if he was the next to help her get over her ex-lover.Maybe he is just what I need.

“Your card, please,” she said, loving how refined she sounded.

He reached in his inner pocket and removed one from a gold metal container to hand to her between his index and middle finger.

“Okay. Smooth,” she said teasingly as she took it from him. “I’ll be honest—”

The lights dimmed.

They both looked to the stage.

“I’m not sure if I’m looking for anything—even a date—but if I change my mind I will definitely call you, Mr. King,” she said. “Cool?”

The conductor took his spot before the orchestra.

The audience welcomed him with applause.

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