That’s when he took his second look and I melted, melted like late-January snow during an unexpected heat wave. He possessed a humility never seen, almost as if he wanted me to forget it. Not in regrets but in, “damn, I wish you stayed on me as much as I’m staying on you…” I wish I did too. I didn’t want to disengage, I really didn’t. I think about our missed conversation, him asking me if I’m from here and me telling him “no”. The lead-up to him asking me on a date. Where would he go? What other aspects of his life would I swoon over. He was already fly as hell, he hipped me on the one. Was he in school? Non-profits? Hustling a nine-to-five because his mama would rip him to shreds if he hadn’t.
Wow. She was as cool as I thought she’d be. The butterflies about what to do next when the check comes and we both must go home. With each other? The innocence in that, even in his believer body I possess. Jesus freaks do fuck. Just not me, not right now. Me going home, aches and pains of all kinds carry me to sleep only to find a text in the morning asking for a round two of that same innocence and delayed gratification.
In the days since, I wonder if he looked to confirm an idea of him knowing me. It’s the only justification my shattered confidence can give toward that moment. I don’t possess the would-be-feelings-of-arrogance to list off any physical reasons as to why I garnered a brief bit of attention. I ain’t worth all that. I ain’t that different. I can’t sit here and list off the things that make me stand out. Standing out ain’t the goal here. It’s about fitting in — into systems and structures designed to minimize a person like me. Systems that cause me to do the very thing I swear to be fighting against: being small.
My hair was different that day. I ditched my braids for something straight and narrow. Bone straight. I wanted something different, I wanted to go back to my roots. My roots of fitted hats, a 7 ⅛ grew into a 7 ½ thanks to hair I can barely contain. I wore New Eras to be different, I guess. No other girl did it, it felt like. I realize now that I did it to get a look or stare I felt like I didn’t deserve. Without it, you wouldn’t want to give a minute of your attention. All of my friends were worthy of such time but I wasn’t. Going home and crying about it — even into my twenties. A time that I may slightly finess because I mattered for once. To men, at least.
In that brief moment, I mattered. To him and myself.
ciara roslyn-james 