After The Dance Read Online Free

he was just trying to see how I’d respond. You know how some guys like to see just how far you’re willing to go. It’s one of those male ego things. The trick is to only give them so much. They want a mile, you give them an inch or two—a yard if you’re feeling generous. So sure, I gave the brother some leeway and the benefit of the doubt. And when he asked if I was going to join him next Friday, I told him maybe. Maybe …

HIM
    Maybe?! Get out of here! She knew as well as I did that she was coming back. Come next Friday, she was at my door, eight o’clock sharp, cradling a bottle of wine and trying hard to deny me the pleasure of her smile.
    Yeah, but see, I was ready this time. Having taken extensive mental notes on the occasion of our last conversation, I knew
Glory
and
Training Day
would be safe and mutually appreciated choices. We’d both had nothing but praise for Denzel and his Oscar-winning portrayals. And being that I’m undeniably a man starved for female company, I wasn’t about to let another bad video choice muck up what thus far had all the makings of a pretty good time.
    I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually starting to take a shine to ol’ girl. To tell you the truth, in a lot of ways she reminds me of Betty, my ex. Yeah, man, slimas Bet is today you’d probably never guess it, but back when I married ol’ girl she was more than just a few pounds heavier than Faye is now. And talk about feisty! Hey, being a preacher’s daughter ain’t never stopped Bet from speaking her mind, especially if you get her mad.
    But what I like most about Faye, man, is that unlike a lot of these Memphis chicks who’ve educated themselves and managed to get a handful of change in their pockets and some little title before or after their names, she’s not always up in a brother’s face flossing, flaunting, and trying to pull rank. You know the type. First thing outta their mouths is “I’m Director So and So. I belong to such and such sorority, alumni chapter, civil rights organization, or civics club. I’ve got a Jag, an Expedition, a ski club membership, and a summer home in Martha’s Vineyard.” And ol’ girl is coming at you with all this, man, in an accent so thick you’d swear that instead of having lived most of her life deep in the heart of North Memphis, she’d just jumped off the boat from England after having spent years hobnobbing with the likes of Tina Turner or somebody.
    And don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to hate on a sister for having “come up” and then gone out and snagged herself a nice chunk of the American pie. It’s not like I myself don’t have a liberal arts degree, a managerial position, and a healthy appetite for the nicer things in life. All I’m saying is, I have yet to buy in to the notion that being a card-carrying member of the Black middle class means I’ve got to be out here 24/7 wearing my upward mobility like another doggone layer of skin.
    Far as I can tell, Faye comes from a similar school of thought. She’s the kind of woman who knows how to bounce between the King’s English and Southern Black street vernacular without getting bogged down on either side. That’s the kind of down-to-earth flavor and versatility that a hardworking brother like myself can appreciate—so much sothat I’m willing to go ahead and invest what little free time I have in getting to know her better.
    ‘Cause the real of it is, man, just when I think I’ve got ol’ girl figured out, she goes and whips something new out the hat on me. Take the other night, for example. She was scanning the shelves at my place and complimenting me on my collection of books (most of which I either borrowed or outright stole from Dr. Tucker, my literature-teaching baby sis) when right off the top of her head Faye starts reciting lines from two of my all-time favorite poems—Langston’s “Dream Variation” and Margaret Walker’s “For My People.” I’m saying, I’d