Chapter One Evelyn #2
Perfect, Evelyn told herself when they received compliments from associates and strangers alike, the young power couple that captured people’s attention around hangout spots at Adams Morgan or H Street and on the feeds.
A millennial–Gen Z credit to the race, part of Black and bright DC.
What she’d yearned for since her Howard days.
Ambitious, voluptuous Evelyn… the circle.
Debonair, lean Kent… the line. As if they were the stars of a shiny campaign she’d masterminded.
The parts of the campaign not so shiny? Best ignored.
Kent never once helped Evelyn with her own accounts, even when she battled COVID-19, even when she worked sixteen hours a day for two weeks while he was on a family cruise.
He never advocated for Evelyn to get a raise when they realized he had a higher salary though she brought far more business to the company.
And when it came to intimacy, the more left unsaid, the better.
Some women sized Kent up and gave Evelyn the look that said, Mm…
I see what you working with. Little did they know that Kent was a man of modest dimensions who preferred sex only on weekends, his place, no lights, his hand on Evelyn’s shoulders accompanied by three minutes of clumsy thrusting and language—“my tight pus-saaaaaay biiiiiiiiiiitch”…
“my big tit-taaaaay hoooooooo”—that he would never utter in the light of day.
She folded within herself during their encounters, shook it off. Every relationship had its challenges.
After almost eight months of dating, Kent sat down with Evelyn in her cubicle one afternoon and told her he thought that they should end things, that he needed to figure out what he really wanted.
“Our time together was great,” he said before he took her hands in his palms. His touch, a surprise.
They’d made it their business to never show affection at Mtume.
“But there are better guys out there for you.”
Evelyn nodded, too numb to fully comprehend what was happening.
Why… did he end things in the office? she wondered, slowly realizing that it was so she wouldn’t make a scene.
Her existence since the breakup was that of a composed, contained worker bee who had to pretend like everything was okay, like she hadn’t bawled her eyes out every night in her apartment when Kent ignored her texts and calls.
Now, watching him walk away, Evelyn went on autopilot.
The day had become much too much. She didn’t want to think about Kent or Fitzroy or paranormal initiatives…
or anything. She skipped lunch, completed all her tasks for the day, and left at five on the dot.
She ignored Chyna’s “toodle-oo” goodbye and made her usual short walk from office lobby to Metro.
Evelyn soon stepped onto the Green Line train that arrived at L’Enfant Plaza and maneuvered around a disheveled man with a salt-and-pepper beard.
Drenched in sweat, he stood immobile on the platform as the doors opened.
His eyes looked strange, weirdly vacant.
The man’s light brown cheeks were sunken, arms limp.
His khakis were dirty, torn at the knee.
A mass of rush hour commuters swarmed around him. He didn’t move.
She sucked her teeth, not in the mood to deal with a wacko tripping on drugs.
She hustled over to a corner seat on the train.
The blue rubber upholstery clung to her legs, made her feel like a sticky, dirty thing.
Evelyn closed her eyes, tried to ignore the heaviness that pressed against her body, the way her shoulders drooped, the tightness in her jaw.
The feelings she experienced when life became too overwhelming.
She would sometimes find her escape through work, which right now wasn’t an option.
After a short ride, she got off at U Street and zoned out on the escalator ride that took her outside.
The sun was still bright as folks made their way home or headed out for food and drinks.
Her mouth began to water as the aroma of half smokes wafted over from Ben’s Chili Bowl down the street.
A reminder of when she ate where she wanted, how she wanted, before she’d taken on board Kent ’s obsession with bland meal kits that claimed to reduce inflammation and bloat.
The last time she’d been inside Ben’s, on one of her dates with Trevor. Sweet, resourceful Trevor.
Evelyn wondered what he was up to, the public radio podcaster who she’d met while perusing the self-help section at Politics and Prose.
Trevor, a fellow B-more native who always wanted to go to a concert or try out different restaurants, who found a way to treat her to drinks or dinner even with a limited budget.
Who would throw down and cook for her unprompted, who prepared braised ribs and chicken and cobbed corn while they watched legal dramas or rom-coms at his place.
Who once, when they were eating barbeque, took Evelyn’s saucy fingers, placed them in his mouth, and licked them clean, his tongue a twisting snake that flicked in and out.
The gesture so unexpected, so intimate, that it caused all sorts of sensations that left her feeling… not like herself.
The next day, she decided to focus on Kent exclusively.
The wisps of half smoke left Evelyn as she strolled past the eatery and walked under the awning of the Lincoln Theatre.
She glanced back at the sidewalk mural of Harriet Tubman in a green cloak holding a lantern above an afroed Prince, the Obamas to his right, all smiles, encircled by the American flag.
She glimpsed the True Reformer Building across the street on Twelfth with its mural of a somber Duke Ellington flanked by piano keys.
The art and its connection to U Street history usually gave Evelyn a surge of pride and confidence. Today, nothing.
She reached Vinnie’s Vintage, a local secondhand clothing boutique, and saw herself reflected in the store’s large glass window. She was supposed to be all glowed up with her bobbed wig and teal suit a size too small and black stilettos that were torture on her arches.
Evelyn stopped and looked at herself. Really looked at herself in the clear glass, as if she were in front of Renaissance mirrors. The truth too clear.