I loved J–my tall, glasses-wearing, Seinfeld-watching, Tennessee-drawlin’, hip-hop enthusiast, LGBTQA ally, Afrocentric Black man. He was my personal sunshine and nothing like the dark love I was trying to get over; it was only right that I fell for him in the summertime.
I loved how expressive and affectionate he was. He had no trouble letting me know what he was thinking about. He’d share stories about his family. (I distinctly recall hearing about his grandfather, the preacher, who pastored a church on the South side and had a street named after him. And he’d share-half chagrined, half pleased-that his mother religiously posted baby pictures of her only child as well as her daily “Today in Black History” on Facebook.) He would always casually throw an arm over me, an uncomplicated embrace complete with twinkling eyes and a quick grin. He’d stop me from cleaning up after we ate like I’d been trained and hold me to let me know he’d help finish the job. He was elegantly poetic without ever meaning to be. His touch never felt possessive or grabby — somehow he knew just when I wanted him closer him even we were walking a foot apart, so he’d grab my hand and lace our fingers together.
I loved the adventures we would take. He would drive around the city always finding something new, or showing me around the neighborhoods of his youth. I loved the way he would introduce me to his friends. I was always “his lady, his girl”, and he would lay claim to me, pulling me close, saying my name and smiling. I knew showing me off made him happy, and the cherry on top was the friend’s inevitable grin and “so this is the girl I’ve heard all about!” that came after the introduction. I was proud to be with a man who was excited to be with me.
I loved that he didn’t watch porn — how different! He never made it a big deal, but I was astounded. He just said he liked the real thing better and would rather imagine making love with a live girl. I could tell that he wasn’t lying; he didn’t have sex like some guys who watched porn, like it was a well-rehearsed performance.
I loved the way he kept hundreds of CDs in his car. When it was late at night and we were driving through the city on another one of our adventures, he’d always pick just the right one — something new to me — and start singing or rapping along in that deep, rolling man’s voice of his. He’d sing out, shameless, hands tapping the steering wheel, and looking so content that I couldn’t help but place my hand on his thigh and smile to let him know I was too. Within minutes, I’d be singing the song with him, and I’d wonder how I’d found someone who connected to music the same way I do.
I loved that I didn’t feel like the smartest person in the room with him. J always had a tidbit of information to share, some anecdote about life, and I would try to remember all the nuggets of information he spewed out. When he’d go on a tangent about his favorite musician or historical figure or TV show, I’d sit beside him enraptured, thoroughly impressed by the sheer knowledge he possessed. Too impressed to get bored even when I wasn’t interested in the topic.
And though it irked me to no end, I loved that no matter where we went, he was found by a friend. Someone inevitably came up or called out to say hello to him. They could be elderly, a child, a middle-aged woman, someone our age, it didn’t matter; they all loved J. They thought he was funny, intelligent, thoughtful, and strong — and he was. J would pause, turn my way to make an apologetic smile at me standing beside him with folded arms and a raised brow, and then warmly greet whoever had come our way. I never wanted our time together to be interrupted; I didn’t want to know I shared him. I resented the many stops we had to take to talk to these strangers, the explanations he would later give me of which one of his literally thousands of friends and acquaintances we’d just met. Seeing everyone interact with him made me change my mind every time though, and I had to wonder if he’d bewitched his friends like he had me. I would soften then and smile just in time for him to look my way again to present me as his girl.
Most of all, I loved that one day he asked me what I wanted to do. As he watched me intently awaiting my reply, I thought of the lazy days I spent at my home as a child, laying barefoot outside in the grass, a book in hand with two in tow, reading the day away. So we stopped the adventure we’d begun to head towards my favorite park. He had books of his own in his car — smart man that he was — like biographies on black philosophers and Civil Rights activists, analyses of the “Hip-Hop Generation”, and journalism books. We threw down the blanket he kept stowed in his trunk, laid next to each other and began to read. The moment felt just like I remembered, except I was here with a man, my man I thought. I felt giddy, elated that he was helping me recreate one of my favorite childhood memories, and I could no longer keep still. A bubbly feeling in me made me stand up. Before I knew it, I was dancing in the park barefoot, with outstretched arms, twirling in a purple sundress, with my eyes closed facing the sun. I loved him even more then just then. Loved that I was in what I knew was a perfect moment, and I willed him to watch me so he’d know it too. I opened my eyes and saw him reading, laying languidly in the shade, his tall body too long for the blanket we’d put out. I began dancing closer. After a while, I noticed that he wasn’t reading anymore. He was watching me dance about goofily, and he smiled a smile I recognized. It was a love smile, one you give when the person you’re looking at is doing nothing particularly spectacular, but they’ve taken your breath away. So I smiled right back.