Chapter 1 #2
By the time I got back to my place on the Lower Hill, the day had slipped into that honeyed part of late afternoon where light made everything look softer than it felt in the morning.
My townhouse sat high enough to catch a little sky and enough of the city to remind me I had chosen well.
Warm wood underfoot. A cream sofa deep enough to disappear into.
A brass-and-glass bar cart I actually used.
Books stacked in small, tasteful towers beside candles with names like dusk and skin and amber.
Over the sofa hung a large Black figurative piece I had bought from a local artist two summers ago, a brown-skinned woman in gold earrings with her head tipped back and her eyes closed like she knew something holy about herself.
Across from it, a smaller mixed-media piece by a Howard alum, all indigo, rust, and Black hands layered over old maps of Pittsburgh, reminded me every time I passed it that place and identity were never separate things for us.
I liked a home that looked cared for. Lived in, but with intention. The kind of place that said a Black woman with taste, softness, and money loved herself here.
I dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and kicked off my shoes, then headed straight for the bedroom to peel out of the workday.
Laptop bag by the chaise. Earrings off. Skirt zipper down.
I stood in front of the mirror in my bra and fitted skirt for a beat, taking myself in without pretending I didn’t.
Average height. Full hips. An ass that had caused enough problems in my life to deserve its own tax bracket.
Light-brown skin that looked best when I was rested and hydrated, which this week had only given me one out of two.
Amber eyes that could look soft or dangerous depending on the light and what I was thinking behind them.
A body that had shifted some through my thirties, softened in places, deepened in others, but still answered me when I asked it to.
Still looked good in a dress. Still made men stare when I walked away from them.
And more than that, it was still mine in the ways that mattered.
Mine to soften. Mine to dress. Mine to pleasure.
Mine to honor.
I knew how to keep myself. That was never the issue. The issue was that being beautiful didn’t spare you from disappointment. It just made some men arrive at it faster.
I stepped out of the skirt, unhooked my bra, and let both fall where they landed before heading for the shower.
The water came down hot enough to make me exhale.
Steam climbed. My muscles loosened. I stood there longer than I needed to, hands braced at the tile while my mind drifted toward the evening whether I wanted it to or not.
The mixer. Faces from the group. The same men who looked excellent in still photos and somehow turned ordinary the minute they started talking too long in person.
The same women pretending they came only to network when everybody knew half the room had already checked stories and comment sections before deciding whether the outfit and the Uber were worth it.
I lathered slowly, letting scented body wash slip over my skin, and told myself this was just another Monday. Just clothes. Just a drink. Just a room.
Still, something inside me stirred at the thought of being seen.
Not by everybody. Just by the right kind of eyes.
That was the truth of it. I could be wise, cautious, seasoned, all of that. I could know better. I did know better. But there was still some living part of me that wanted to walk into a room and feel possibility turn its head.
When I stepped out and wrapped a towel around my body, my phone was blinking on the vanity.
Another text from Kendra.
I’m not playing. Wear the black dress.
I laughed out loud.
That black dress is not for networking.
The bubbles came right back.
Exactly.
I shook my head and opened the closet anyway.
The black Khaite dress hung where I’d left it after dry cleaning, silk jersey with enough weight to skim instead of cling, the neckline doing exactly what it needed to do without begging for attention.
It wasn’t too short. Wasn’t too sweet. It followed the shape of me the way expensive fabric was supposed to when somebody knew what women actually looked like.
It hugged where it should. Eased up where it needed to. Gave just enough.
Good dress. Good taste. Good for a room where I wanted to feel like myself, only finer.
Dangerous, Mena had said. Maybe.
I laid it across the bed and moved through the rest the way I always did when I wanted to feel fully with myself before I belonged to the night.
Lotion first. L’Occitane Almond Milk Concentrate, rich and velvety over my arms, my legs, my breasts, my stomach.
Then Osea body oil over my collarbone, shoulders, and shins until my skin caught the light like it had already been touched.
I took my time with that part. Always did.
The slow circle of my own hands. The warmth.
The shine. The quiet reminder that softness was not something I waited around to receive.
Under that, I chose a matching Fleur du Mal set in warm nude silk and mesh. Pretty enough to matter. Soft enough not to interrupt the line of the dress. Nothing loud. Nothing doing too much. Just feminine. Intentional. The kind of underwear that rewarded discovery.
At the vanity, I reached for perfume last. Initio Musk Therapy. Soft at first spray, then warmer once it met my skin, the almond cream, the oil, the heat at my pulse points. It smelled like money, skin, and a woman nobody was going to forget once she got close enough.
By the time I sat down to do my face, the room had changed around me.