one shots

shorty swing my way [9]

december 1998
friday
7:13 p.m.

"What do you mean you moved in with this boy?" my mother asked.
"Mama, I can't stay where I've been. Lisa was killed there," I whispered the last part as if saying it out loud would unleash some secret.

"The murder weapon wasn't even found at the scene, Mama. The people at the forensics center said that the bruises on her neck were from strangling and from the edge of a knife. The T.V. in our place was up so loud because they didn't want anyone to hear her screams. They didn't even steal anything. They were out to get her, Ma. They could've been out to get me too. I couldn't stay there," I shook my head in refusal.

"I know, baby, but you barely even know this boy," she reasoned.
"He's a good man," I assured her.
"You've only known him for a couple of months, Renée. Besides, I don't want you to end up being dependent on him. You know what I always tell you," she started off.

"Men will convince you to give them your load and then hold it over you," I rolled my eyes, mouthing along to her words.

She's been telling me this since I knew what the opposite sex was. She'd been saying it twice as much since I was old enough to date.

"I understand, Mama," I sighed.
"Alright now. I want you to be careful, okay?" concern coated her voice.
"Okay," I answered.

I told her I love her and hung up. Within moments, I had resumed what I was doing. Currently, I was clad in black, lace lingerie with a matching silk robe. I placed candles all around the house, lining the trails of rose petals, one leading from the door all the way to the kitchen while the other led up the stairs and into his room. I was anticipating a candle lit dinner and candle lit "dessert" to follow.

DeAndré was at work, and I was setting the mood. I just wanted to do something special to commemorate my first week living with him. Everything was perfect.

I was able to wake up to the sunset every morning, next to Sleeping Handsome. I'd get ready for my day and make my way downstairs to find breakfast being made by the same man I left in bed to get started on my morning routine. He'd kiss me and urge me to sit and chat it up with him over breakfast. He wasn't the most open person-- quite frankly, he always seemed to be hiding something with how closed off he was-- but he was willing to give me pieces of himself until he was ready to show all of himself to me.

I've learned that in order for him to open up, he has to want to do so. I've also learned that constantly pressing him about an issue would only prolong the information. Every time I'd whine about something, I imagined another tally mark being made in his mind. Another tally mark may equal another hour or day of withholding information. He, honestly, got a kick out of it.

He fed off of watching me slide my layers off and open up to him and struggle to get him to do the same. Getting him to talk about things that are "complicated" to him is like pulling on a door that only opens when you push it-- a dead-end game.

I didn't mind though. Watching that smirk slide onto his face and a chuckle leave his lips was a sight that I would probably pay to see if I had to. Trying to force him to open up was fun anyway. Sometimes, it annoyed him, and I loved watching his jaw clench and his eyes pierce mine. I also loved making him break his mean mug with a joke that'd often make him crack up.

Me and DeAndré just. . . worked.

Usually, my desire to control and the "not letting a man be a man" aspect of myself drove guys away. On top of that, my attitude was a handful in of itself. . . but as for DeAndré. . . he loved it.

He loved someone who could challenge him. He loved someone who could do for themselves— someone who wants him rather than needs him. Someone who's got a lil' "unf" about 'em. . . and I just so happened to be that someone.