Heavy Love(20)

There's a hardness in my heart for a man who I've been so raw, so real  with. How could I open my heart to a complete stranger? With my  background, this is laughable. Franco puts his hands on his head, honey  eyes surveying the kitchen counter. He picks up the cartoon of eggs,  breaks one perfectly into a glass bowl. He's like every other man who  has walked into my office, being forced by their significant other.  Divulging, sharing feelings, this is something that he does not want to  do.

My ultimatum is concrete. "Talk or leave, Franco."

"I am gonna talk, Angelique." His baritone voice has a precision to it,  sexy and forceful. Then his tone mellows out, "Let me get into the right  mind frame."

The psychoanalyst in me implores me to take it slow. Make connections.  Build rapport. But, forget that, Franco can read me like a book. Because  I messed around and laid myself bare like butterfly wings after the  rain, I'm just that vulnerable. "What's her name? No lies either."

He stops whisking. "I actually prefer you drunk."

"That's a machismo response." I snap even though he's joshing. And damn  it, I wish I were drunk, too. Something to get the edge off. Watching  him cook is erotic, sending my emotions into a whirlwind even if he gets  on my last damn nerve.

"Machismo?" He gives a languid glance. "So what? You were nicer. If you  gotta be drunk to be nice, that's just how I like you. I'm telling it  like it is."

"Humph telling it like it is. Ehh, Eduardo? And the girl you've been pining over."

He almost chuckles. "Our conversation could rival a game of fútbol. Too much back and forth."

"Her name. I've noticed this is an issue for you." My fingers tingle  with anticipation. There's something, sort of a "dear John" story here, a  desire to be saved, even if he's not aware of it, and I can't wait to  hear it. The man who prides himself on being perfect in front of the  camera – at least before the network/Youtube fiasco – needs to be saved, and  changed for the better.

"No psych bullshit?" he begins whisking the eggs again, now adding onions, bell peppers and garlic.

My face is set in stone though. Smiling inwardly, I can't wait to  proffer my opinion, without any theoretical grounding, I'll keep that  portion to myself. Outwardly frowning, I'm getting ready to reiterate  the ultimatum, talk or go. I take a sip of the juice, lips sneered.  Until he tells me her name. ‘

"Lido Ali?" I inquire, knowing the name very well. She's Naomi Campbell  to the trillionth power. Now, I will always promote and uplift any black  female that is about her business, just not this one. She's the devil  dripped in gold and ice.         

     



 

"Si."

Laughter erupts from my body. The synapses in my brain are going into  overdrive. The left side of my brain cues that laughing is probably not a  good idea, imploring me to cease, beseeching me to steer toward  rapport. While even more portions of my cognition remind me how long  it's been since I've had a good laugh. He stands there, hands at that  impeccable v-shaped waistline for the length of time it takes me to  choke on the drink that went down the wrong windpipe. I hold onto my  side, trying to apologize. Juice goes dribbling down my chin. Franco  snatches a thick, soft paper towel from the rack and holds it out. But  I'm laughing so hard and choking even more so, that I knuckle down and  decide to wipe the orange juice away with the back of my hand.

After a while, Franco's no longer amused with my childish antics. He  continues to grab a large pot from the cabinet. Throat tarnished from  all of the choking, yet body giddy, I sigh deeply. My lips tremble with  the need to smile and the desire to bubble over laughing again. But I'm  strong now.

Silence engulfs us.

Finally, I'm sincere. "I am sorry, Franco."

"Oh yeah, you'll be waiting for ever if you expect me to believe that.  On another note, the way you look while smiling, that shit is priceless.  How ‘bout that?"

"Hmmm..." I stifle more giggling though his comment was far from a quip.  Franco is subtly flirting. Not sure if he really likes me, or he's  using it as ammunition. The guy has a can't breathe, can't sleep type of  effect on me.

Last night, before I began to tell Franco about my past, he tried his  luck while I cooked for us. Perhaps we had the makings of ‘drunk sex' …   but then he was respectful, and we connected.

I glance at him, wanting to get back to that. The simple part of us that I've come to enjoy in less than forty-eight hours.

"Jelly," Franco steps closer me. The air in my lungs evaporates. The  carnival of happiness which are endorphins soaring through my veins burn  over. Him being so close is different. I was tipsy last night, and it's  not even that he lied about his name. Or that he's famous. There's only  one variable between the friend I made last night. Desire. And Franco.  Being. So. Close. To. Me.

Cologne made just for him, with intense, spiced notes of testosterone  envelope me. Franco reaches over and my heart caves in its chest cavity.  He touches the strands of hair on my forehead and pushes them back  against my ear. His fingertips graze my earlobe ever so gently as he  pulls away.

"All right Ms. Curtis, give me your therapist spiel."

"To be honest, I haven't gotten enough info to make an educated guess.  And besides, I really was just being judgmental." I pause, as another  image of Franco falling for the likes of the supermodel take over. Is  this a sign of jealousy? Yes! I think so, however I'll equate it to him  being a celebrity. A chick is bound to be jealous seeing a magazine with  her favorite heartthrob holding another close? So generalizing Franco,  and this situation is best. Biting my lip at the need to chuckle once  more, I hold my chin high. "Last night we were two strangers ... no,w  were friends. We became friends who were coping. So I'm not going to  write this up as a session, okay, Franco? Just two friends talking."

"What friend you are," he says, no animosity included, "you just got your kicks at my expense."

"That's true. Look," I hold up both my hands as if they're scales. "I've  the feeling, where apologies are concerned, you're still winning the  race, Eduardo. Tell me more about ... about... Dang," I try not to  judge. Not to mention the fact that I don't condone the use of this  word – but there's no way around this bit of truth. "Again, I apologize,  the woman you're supposedly in love with is a witch. Roll out the red  carpet, all caps, kinda b."

"Oh yeah," he gives a sardonic look, yet those molasses warmers are  aglow with amusement. The tension between us has fizzled. Then Franco  does something I wouldn't even dream of, at least not so soon. He tells  me about Lido Ali.





CHAPTER 16


Franco





FOR A MOMENT that baby doll face is a cloud of thought after having  heard my story. Lido and I met during an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting  while she was in town to broadcast for the Macy's parade. I put the  finishing garnishes on a square, light blue plate.

"Hey now!" Angelique says while I place an appetizer before her. "This looks way more delectable than jalapeño poppers."

I tell her about the dish, "You're too sophisticated for just any old  item. I present prawns, with figs and raspberries over iberco ham. And  just because you talked smack about jalapeno poppers, but I know you  secretly crave them, I even added a little kick to it."         

     



 

She rolls her eyes with a smile. "Ha …  ha, Franco. I would have been  happy with the poppers so the joke is on you. Anywho, this food looks  exquisite, magazine cover page worthy, and smells divine. But, yes,  spice is always good."

She forks a piece of ham and fruit to taste.

Her palate is like fireworks bursting with flavor at the various  elements and it's written all over that doll face. Her long black  eyelashes flutter before finding solace on baby-soft cheeks as Angelique  closes her eyes. She places the fork down, head leaning toward the  ceiling as an orgasmic moan rolls past her berry colored just parted  lips.

My cock, the happy big hound it's always been known to be, starts to  grow in overdrive. I look away. Angelique is not one of the select few  who were lucky enough to sample my selections, which so happened to be  whatever was in my fridge before or after sex. Granted, nothing that I  prepare is mediocre, I scoured the tiny shops along the coast for the  perfect spices, and that was just to conjure up an idea of where to  start. So I walk stiff-legged back toward the free range stove. While I  get back to the story about the whirlwind sex, finding out Lido was  trying to get back with Veronica even during our two-month fling.

Angelique nods intently throughout my story. I then set before her a bowl of percebes.

"What in the world is this?"