In an effort to stay focused, Marcus cleared his throat, stared at Brittany while she talked, hoped the appearance of attention would suffice. What Marcus knew about her, that she was a would-be writer, a budding feminist with a double major in comparative literature and philosophy at Goucher College. That for two months she had been dragging him to literary events like tonight’s poetry reading. That in his latest effort to remain coupled, he had allowed himself to endure hours of mostly bad poetry and literary first moments of virgin writers like herself. Marcus had borne it, not because she was the one, or some other romantic notion, but because the sex was good, she was intelligent and made him laugh, and he was earnestly attempting to see one woman at a time. It would, he thought, make Alma happy. No, not happy. Never if a woman like Brittany was his choice.
He sipped at his beer, then despite his honorable intentions, surreptitiously turned his gaze to what really held his attention, a woman he had noticed from the moment they were seated. The cliché struck him, a woman across a crowded room, talking to the pianist who never paused in his playing of an amalgam of smooth jazz meant to serve as an undercurrent to the buzz of patrons, the tinkling of glasses, the clatter of silverware against small plates of food, settled on white clothed tiny rectangular tables. The woman wore a white dress wrapped around her like some kind of body turban, her deep brown shoulders and long arms exposed. She was tall, maybe as tall as himself and shapely, like a woman who played tennis or volleyball. She had meat on her bones and was fit. He liked that. Mostly, he liked her eyes. They dominated her heart shaped face, which was framed by a short cropped natural. He didn’t like the hair. He liked his women to look like women.
Marcus tried to refocus on his date. A beautiful 20-year-old, with light brown hair resting on her shoulders and pale blue eyes that looked like water. Brittany was the kind of woman that caused men, including him, to do a 180 when spotted on the street. Accept Marcus didn’t cat call like so many men, he only looked. Then if the moment was right and the woman seemed mutually interested, he made his move. Pretty successfully. Marcus had the head turner looks as well and hell, like attracts like. He had never cared about his looks, but as he was growing towards adolescence, his aunts whispered loudly, about his appearance. My handsome nephew they said to him, as they squeezed his chin, turned his face this way and that, through pursed rouged lips, My handsome nephew. Gonna be a player, alright. Marcus endured the compliments that never made him feel anything about himself. He hadn’t cared. At family gatherings relatives and family friends told him he looked like his mother. He hadn’t liked those comparisons any more than the backwards compliments from his aunts. Still, he had inherited Almas’ wavy jet-black hair, cut short above his ears, her arching brows over eyes so intense they looked black. He was light skinned like her too but playing tennis had made him browner. He liked that. It was uncomfortable when people couldn’t figure out if he was Black. When they tried to guess at his ethnicity or said rudely, Hey, what are you?