LOVE ME LIKE ART

4

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Imani L. Crawford

"I'M AN ESCORT." I finally say, a little uncomfortably as I trace the rim of my glass with my index and thumb. I chew my cheek, anxiously, as the walls that guard my heart and head feel at odds.

I, too, feel slightly wounded by his gape.

He hasn't said a damn word. I wonder what the hell is he thinking?

Is he repulsed?

Is he struck with shock? If he is, how do I get him down?

Does he not care? It definitely can't be that, men can't help but forge strong opinions about shit like this especially when it isn't warranted.

I'm not sure why whatever he thinks about has me rooted but it does and it is fucking strange.

I've never been one to care about whatever opinions people hold about me, when there ain't nobody paying my rent but me.

His eyes dart back at me and I still cannot pinpoint what he's thinking but he's strumming something.

Something that I am struggling to understand, something that feels anonymous in my makeup. Something that feels littered with sincerity. I'm expecting a slew of insults, for his blossoming brown eyes to narrow at me like I am a woman that disgusts him.

I'm expecting him to take up space and leave me adrift.

In a world as transactional as mine is, I can't remember the last time a man surprised me.

I usually am the surprise. I am the subject of their denigration because respectable women don't do what I do. I stopped being self-conscious about it when it is my unfettered truth.

Many don't and will never understand.

Naively, I used to wish that they did but now, I don't give a single damn. It's depleting and depressing shifting your terms to meet someone else's.

That is why where we are, here with Zach, almost renders me motionless.

His eyes look down at me, differently, with beautiful hope. It is so different that it knocks me off my perch. His eyes are warm, like peaches in bloom and his lips are moist, still purring at me with attention. I wish I could savour the sweet colour of understanding that makes his skin glow like he is the sun. It adds such a gorgeous hue to his skin. He moves his stool seat, closer, like he isn't phased by the burn.

This all makes me feel still.

I'm struck, painfully, like a dagger in the chest. Except, this isn't the kind that kills, but resurrects the small, juncture of my black heart. He has me under this umbrella of torrential rain, holding it out for my fingers to cross his.

I've never known such a loud display of kindness without expectation. Every facet of my world is transactional. It is one of the few moments where I'm glad I've erred and completely misjudged him.

"That's cool." It is like he doesn't want me to wilt in the silence for longer than I needed to, as he says. "I'm a lawyer."

I suck in my bottom lip. I'm deflated, just as quickly as he inflates me with his precious air.

In quiet thought, I'm resurrected back to reality and I line my exit, with steep reluctance. I have no intention on spending the night in pen, because I've struck a genuine, friendly conversation with a lawyer. He is on the same side of the fence as the feds, no matter how much, he might posture that he isn't.

"Oh," I bite my lip, reaching for my drink.

"Hey." His fingers are warm as he grazes the lines of mine. I hate the feeling of my skin colliding with someone else's, but something small in me jitters. "I'm not that kind of lawyer, so don't do what I think you're going to do." He surmises as his retro signet ring hits against the glass.