#2 The Softest Fall

he was in control. of himself. of me. of everything.

I stood, motionless, waiting to remember a time in my life that felt more magical. More sinister. More appropriate. More altering. More heart-stopping. More sacred. More fanciful than this one, but I couldn’t.

Not even my move compares.

Not even that time I had a pony at my birthday party compares.

Not even the first time I felt my chest bulge with puberty compares.

Not even my first kiss with Anthony compares.

Not even the first entry I wrote in my now best-selling column, Adult-Somethings, compares.

My thoughts ran a mile a minute.

“You going to start walking, or are you going to just stand there looking like something fresh out of a Sunday morning dream?” Poetry chuckled.

“I–uh.” Sighing, I pushed out a shaky breath.

My fingers were trembling with uncertainty. My head was spinning with curiosity. And, my heart was thudding with passion.

Passion that reminded me of his name.

Poetry.

He deserved that name. He was as beautiful as the pieces I read in my spare time.

“You destroyed my sense of direction,” I responded, slowly.

Softly.

Utterly recognizable.

My voice resembled the low, comforting one I recalled when safety was the least of my concerns. It was frequent around my father. My grandfather. And, the rest of the men who shared the same blood as me.

But, Poetry didn’t. He was a total stranger.

Or maybe we’ve met in another lifetime, because some part of me knows him. I concluded.

“I’m your sense of direction, Fall. I thought we cleared all of that up.”

He waved his hand near his face, flashing a smile that made me forget hunger existed.

His joy was contagious. I felt my lips pull backward as my cheeks fluffed.

“Did we not?”

I nodded. “Maybe we did.”

“It seems to me like you might’ve missed that part.”

I shook my head.

“Good, then, come on.”

He didn’t wait for permission to take my hand into his. Neither did he wait to pull me in the direction I’d just come from.

The bright light that urged pedestrians to cross was glowing on the other side. We didn’t have the rightaway, but Poetry pushed forward, anyway. His steps were even. Calculated. Percise. He was in control.

Of himself.

Of me.

Of everything.

“Poetry,” I said, just above a whisper.

Time stopped. So did his feet. And, so did mine, involuntarily. I was repulsed by my lack of control.

“Yes?”

His eyebrows stood at attention, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck. My shoulders curled inward as I shrank and expanded simultaneously.

Scrrrrrrr.

He heard nothing. He saw nothing. But me.

This time, the wheels halted for something other than a lost woman with a map glued to her hands. This time, they stopped for him.

Not even the sound of screeching tires startled him. He didn’t flinch as his dark orbs burned holes into my face.

“Fall–”

Breathlessly, I swallowed my spit. He’d managed to create a pool underneath my tongue, unintentionally. Parts of me I didn’t want to consider were moist because of Poetry’s alluring presence. He was extracting my nature one body part at a time.

“I– the light. It’s green.”

“So are you,” he chuckled, tipping his head leftward.

Silence surrounded us. For a brief second, I thought we’d teleported to a new world.

Another universe.

Another planet.

But when he turned and continued toward the other end of the street, I realized we were still here. Still in Saint. Still in Huffington.

The whistling winds of the night cooled my overheated frame. I was grateful for the breeze. It tapped against my face, letting me know I hadn’t fallen asleep on the wooden floor of my new apartment, and Poetry wasn’t a mere collectible in the falsehood of my vivid dreams.

My New Balances collided with the sidewalk as the grip around my hand tightened. A block away from where we’d begun, our journey ended. As we approached 12th + Oak, one of the few restaurants on my list of possibilities for solo date nights, the line became more visible.

I gnawed on my bottom lip as my stomach knotted with desperation. My mother’s words lingered in silence. I was in no condition to wait for entry, seating, and food. My bones were tired. I needed a seat much sooner than later.

“Come on,” Poetry urged just as my legs slowed to a creep.

He picked up the pace again, weaving through the bystanders and making his way toward the door.

“What’s up, P?”

“What’s good?”

“Back so soon?”

“Duty calls,” Poetry responded to one of the three gentleman awaiting his acknowledgement of their presence.

“Understood,” the one closest to the door spat, “Enjoy your night.”

He doesn’t use more words than necessary. I scribbled the note in my mental journal, hoping I didn’t forget the vital piece of information before I made it back home.

Upon entry, Poetry stood at the hostess’ stand. The two young women with almost identical faces stopped shuffling through the paper in front of them to greet us.

“Good evening, Sir. Ma’am.”

“Table for two. Best in the house.”

“Right this way.”

There was no hesitation. One of the women rounded the podium and led us through the large wooden door, which opened after a single knock. Inside of 12th + Oak was magical.

Images hardly captured its beauty. Oak covered the floors, countertops, and tables. Greenery was plentiful. The space put me in the mind of an upscale, very luxurious treehouse. Birds gathered in a large display at the front of the restaurant for all the guests to see. Aside from a healthy amount of chatter, their chirping completed the ambiance.

“This way–” Poetry insisted.

I hadn’t noticed I’d stopped. Neither had I noticed my mouth was agape until I attempted to swallow the dryness that had overcome me. I rubbed my throat as my mouth pooled with saliva again.

We ended what felt like our first marathon at a table up a single flight of stairs. It overlooked the patrons on the bottom level and gave us a front-row seat to the show the birds performed naturally, night after night.

“Will this work, Fall?”

Finding my voice, I looked around, admiring our view.

“It’s perfect.”

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

Poetry’s bones never rested in the seat across from me once I was settled in mine. He pushed my chair closer to the table and headed back down the stairs. My eyes didn’t leave him until he disappeared.

He’s such a work of art.

Every few seconds, I discovered a new detail about his existence. I was swayed by the idea of learning everything possible about him before we parted ways tonight.

Ten minutes after he’d left, Poetry still hadn’t returned. Though I’d tried avoiding it, I retrieved my cell and checked my notifications. Aside from my mother and father, no one would be able to get through after six o’clock every day. I reserved those hours for my wind-down and time alone with my thoughts. Tonight had proved to be different, but I wasn’t opposed to change.

Not as long as a fine man like Poetry is involved and I am still centered.

“Your drink, ma’am.”

From thin air appeared a waitress with two cocktails on a platter. Beside them were two waters. I was pleasantly surprised when she sat both drinks in front of me.

“There’s someone sitting over there.”

“I know, but these are both for you.”

“I didn’t ord–”

“He did,” she informed me.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Can I get you anything else?”

“No. This is fine for now.”

“Alrighty, then. Enjoy.”

My wait continued. I opened one application after another, grossly engaging in screentime beyond my limitations. This wasn’t a solo date, but it was beginning to feel like it. I sipped from the first drink. It was decent. But, the second drink is what stole my heart.

Pomegranate mint martini. The menu in front of me helped me clarify what I was drinking.

Twenty minutes passed before he reappeared. I’d grown weary with hunger as I waited. However, getting lost in my emails soothed the blow of his absence. I’d fought the urge to leave three times. It was the award-winning chef and staff that kept me seated.

I had yet to experience 12th + Oak, so I wasn’t quite ready to leave. It had little to do with Poetry at this point and everything to do with my personal desires. I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to get through those doors again.

“I apologize,” he rushed out.

He wasn’t empty-handed. He appeared with two small plates and a helping hand. From the tray the waitress was holding, he removed two more dishes before sitting down across from me.

He picked a shrimp from the plate closest to him and popped it into his mouth. Three fingers went into the air. His thumb and index finger connected.

“Perfect.”

“Oh, I see. The chef has favorites. You’re friends?”

Chuckling, Poetry shook his head.

“No, Momma. I am the chef.”

I stared, completely taken aback. It was his food that the entirety of Saint was raving about. He was the reason everyone wanted to step inside of 12th + Oak, but it was nearly impossible without reservations months in advance or a sweet prayer to the Lord that the bar had seating.

Twenty minutes made more sense now. Poetry wasn’t keeping me waiting in vain. He was in the kitchen. In his element. Possibly lost in his love for food.

“Wait– so–”

The multiple articles I’d read about the establishment never mentioned the name of the head chef, but noted that he didn’t desire recognition. They also made another thing clear.

“And the owner, yes. Now, try this,” he demanded, forcing a piece of crab cake and placing it near my lips.

Still flabbergasted, I opened and allowed him to stuff my mouth.

to be continued…

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I am Grey Huffington, Black Romance writer, emphasizing the slowness, softness, and stillness Black women desire and deserve. If you love the story you’re reading, I have a full catalog of books just like it. You can find them on Amazon or at greyhuffington.com. Sometimes my store is closed so that I can practice self-control when it comes to my artistry. If you bump into that issue, don’t worry. It’ll reopen when my impulsiveness is not so overwhelming.

Suggested Books to Start:

• Long + consuming: Luca

• Serial reading: Luca

• A feel-good novel: Jagged Edges

• An ode to women: Sensitivity

• Short + sweet: Temple

• Straight to the point: As we Learn (followed by As we Love)

• City-Romance: Syx + the City

For a full list of recommendations, visit greyhuffington.com. For the full catalog (in order), visit my Instagram feed.