6. love jones
love jones
MARLEY
Five hours into this flight, and we’ve shared two glasses of wine, lunch, and some of the most embarrassing stories. I’ve laughed harder than I have in a long time because of this man.
Othello Kingston.
Who knew under that quiet, reserved demeanor that this man could be so open and funny?
The conversation flows non-stop. He even opens up about his next manuscript endeavor.
A book of poems that he is nervous to share.
But Othello doesn’t go deeper than that.
I find myself sharing more of my story than he has shared his.
He’s been wanting to know every little thing about me, and I find that comforting in a way I don’t expect.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks.
“Depends. What do they have?”
We both scroll through the touch screen monitors in front of us, swiping through the gallery of movie selections.
“Oh yes, Love Jones,” I exclaim.
“A classic. I’m down for that.”
We get headphones from the flight attendants and place them in our ears.
“If we want it to start at the same time, we’re going to have to press play on the count of three,” he instructs.
The movie is loaded on both our screens and ready to go.
“Ready?” he asks. “One…”
We both have our pointer fingers hovering over the play buttons on our screens.
“Two…” he says. “Three.”
We press play at the exact same time, the movie starting in sync between us. And as the movie plays, I notice Othello’s knee inching closer to mine. We don’t say too much, only exchanging random comments, laughs, or opinions about certain scenes.
During the sex parts, the playful banter between us mutes completely.
Sensual heat creeps through every inch of me, and I am flustered, wondering if he can tell how tense I’ve become.
The rest of the movie feels impossible to focus on after that, but once the ending comes, where Larenz pulls Nia back and kisses her in the rain, my heart swells with emotion.
“Are you crying?” Othello asks, lowering his fork. We’d been served lunch during the movie.
“No, I just always get emotional when he kisses her in the rain like that.”
“Love Jones is one of my favorite movies.”
“Is it because Darius is a poet?” I ask him.
“Nah, I love how real it feels. Messy, complicated. Passionate. Just two people trying to figure out how to love each other.”
I turn Othello’s words over in my head, replaying the movie through his eyes.
“I think my favorite thing about this movie is that they keep choosing each other. Even after all the mistakes.”
“Have you ever performed your poetry in front of an audience?
He shifts uncomfortably. “I barely want to share it on paper. Standing in front of a crowd and saying it out loud would be an even bigger challenge,” he confesses.
“Didn’t your mom tell you not to let fear make your decisions?” I quip. “Don’t let fear keep you from sharing your passion.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, okay, you got me there.”
“Mmhmm,” I nod. “How long have you been writing poetry?”
“Since I was eight years old,” he tells me. “My pops used to do spoken word, and my mom and I would go to these lounges and watch him perform. I loved the way he captivated the crowd with his words. He poured emotion into every line. It was just something I wanted to be a part of.”
“That’s beautiful. And this book is going to be the first time you’ve shared your poetry.”
“Yep.”
“Why haven’t you shared this before?”
“Fear of change. I mean, the books I put out were all stories I wanted to tell. You know, stories about our history. My audience loved them, and I was always told to give my readers what they want. I figure that’s all they wanted from me. What I’ve always been giving them.”
“I think if they’re true fans, they will love whatever you have to share.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Did you ever stop to think that maybe your readers just love to hear your voice, and you’ve been limiting what that voice is allowed to say?”
He looks at me thoughtfully.
“You should share it with the world,” I tell him. “If you believe in it, your readers will too.”
The look in his eyes seems to shift into something softer, and he cracks a smile. “I needed to hear that. Thank you.”
“No problem. I think your dad would be proud. You, following in his footsteps.”
This gives him pause, that heartbreaking pinch tightening his features again, but only for a second before it disappears.
“My pops had always encouraged me to do spoken word, but I just never had the balls to do it. Figured I’d just write it down in a book instead.”
“I can tell he meant a lot to you.”
“He did.”
“He and my mom were perfect examples of a healthy relationship. They both died when I was fourteen. It was wild, cause it happened on the same day.”
Sympathy washes over me, but I let him continue.
“They were leaving a lounge after one of his poetry nights, and a drunk driver hit them. My momma’s sister, Mimi, took me in after that.
No hesitation. It was just me, her, and her son.
We didn’t have a big family. And that’s another story within itself,” he chuckles.
“But she treated me like her own. Some days, I'd forget she wasn't my momma. They looked alike, acted alike,” he pauses. “Had the same heart.
“I was grateful for my aunt, and I felt it was my job to do right by her for taking on such a big task. She was already a single mother, barely surviving with one child, and then here I come. I never wanted to be a burden, so I helped her out as much as I could. Got a job, helped with bills. Fixed things around her house. Graduated with honors. Stayed out of trouble. It was my way of saying thank you to her.”
“Wow, Othello, I can’t even imagine how devastating that must have been.”
“Yeah, it was a rough time. But I had a lot of therapy,” he chuckles like he’s trying to make light of the situation.
“And I was encouraged to write all my feelings out in a journal, which was no big deal, because my love for writing was second nature. I wrote about things I was feeling. Things I saw. The injustices around me. The experiences of being a black man in this world and all the emotions that came with that. I didn’t expect my passion to become something I could do for a living, but then it happened.
I think about my parents all the time, especially my father. And wonder just how proud of me he is.”
“I’m sure he’s hella proud of you. And I’m sure he’d want you to share your love for poetry with the world too.”
The smile on his face is so big and warm that I almost want to reach over and hug him. “I’m sure he would too,” Othello tells me.
“Do you remember the first poem you ever wrote?”
“Something terrible and that will never see the light of day.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. About as bad as you trying to change your mind on this date I asked you on.”
We laugh, and then he adjusts in his seat and turns towards me.
“Marley.” He calls my name so softly it pulls the air right out of me.
“Yes?”
“Please don’t make me beg.”
He leans in close.
“When we get to Maui, let me take you out?”
I press a finger to my chin, pretending to think.
He lifts an arm and smells his armpit. “Am I funky or something? What’s the problem?”
This has me giggling in my hands.
“I mean, come on. It’s a date with me. That’s nothing but a good time. And you won’t regret it.”
The way he says it makes my pussy throb. I look away, my cheeks hot and unable to stop the emotions swooping and dipping around in the pit of my stomach like a hang glider.
Maybe he’s right. I’ll give him that. This could be exactly what I need. A release. And don’t I deserve that?
Yes.
“I’m not letting you renege on this date,” he continues as if hearing my thoughts battling with themselves. “Besides, this would be the second time my plan didn’t fall through.”
“What plan?” I scoff.
“The plan to ask you out on a date.”
“You never asked me the first time.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” Othello murmurs.
I roll my eyes, but there is a smile on my face.
“So, what do you say? Want to take a chance with me?” he asks.
I let out a breathy laugh. “Alright. Yes. I’ll go on a date with you.”
And this time, I meant it.