Yasmin Sullivan - In His Arms

She took a breath. “I was thinking that you’ve made it, and I haven’t as yet—as yet being the operative words. I wanted to be finished with school by now, to be in my career. I guess I’m a little jealous.”

“Don’t be. You’ll get there soon. And you have something to show for your time that I don’t. A son, a family.”

“That’s true. And that’s part of the reason I’m not finished as yet. But I’ll get there. I have to.”

It was just after ten and had gotten dark. The lights from the promenade were reflected on the water, and boats moored along the harbor bobbed slightly in the flow of the Potomac. There were fewer families out now and more couples. Michelle and Rashad walked close together in the quiet that had sprung up between them.

Rashad broke their silent interlude. “What were you saying before about the piece that you’re going to paint this weekend?”

“I was thinking that I’d check with a few women’s shelters and places like that—Women’s Space, Agatha’s House, that kind of thing.”

“I think it would fit perfectly. It will be in your real portfolio sooner than you know.”

“Thank you for the confidence.”

“Don’t forget I’ve seen it. Hey, I can help with the graphics if you need it.”

“No.” Michelle chuckled. “I wouldn’t be able to add it to my portfolio then, could I?”

“I see your point. Do you know how to import photographs and stuff like that?”

“Enough to do a project, and I have some classmates to call when I need help with directions for things like that.”

“Count me in, as well.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

They had passed several boats anchored along the waterfront and had now gotten to the Chart House, which was still open, at least for the next twenty minutes, so they decided to get a seat on the upper terrace overlooking the Potomac and have virgin daiquiris, as both were driving.

“How old is your son?”

The thought of her son made Michelle smile. “Andre is four. He’s my whole heart.”

“Aw. But four? You seem too young to have a four-year-old son.”

“I’ve just gone back to school, but I’m twenty-five.”

“I thought women weren’t supposed to tell their ages and that men weren’t supposed to ask.”

“I know, but I never understood why. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven,” Rashad answered. “So this is your second time in school?”

“Yes, I started, but then came Andre, and there was just too much going on in my life.”

“Andre’s father?”

Michelle felt herself tense up, but she forced her shoulders to relax.

“I married right out of high school. Andre came a few years later.”

“Wow. Right out of high school? I don’t think I was mature enough to even think about marriage then.”

“Well, I might not have been, either, but I did. I was a little wild in my younger days.”

“Were you? I couldn’t tell that from knowing you now.”

“Hmm.” Michelle thought briefly about her marriage and the toll it had taken on her. Maybe she had lost a bit of her spark, but she had spent the past two years trying to get some of it back. “I was. I partied. I went for the bad boy. I did whatever my parents said not to do. But I don’t like to talk about the past. I want to focus on the future.”

“And you guys have been in D.C. for two years?”

“Don’t start with me now.”

“I wasn’t starting. I was just asking.”

“Yes, we’ve been here for two years. I manage a coffeehouse downtown—Dupont Circle. I started out as a regular employee just after I came here. It’s actually worked out. They let me do early morning and weekend hours, so that I can work full-time, go to school and be with my son in the evenings.”

“So you’re working your way through school and raising a son. That’s a lot.”

“I have good support. My cousin Nigel lives here, and his wife is a godsend.”

“Where are you all from originally?”

“Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Aha. I thought I caught a slight Southern drawl here and there.”

Michelle swatted at Rashad playfully, but he caught her hand before it hit and held it for a moment—a long moment.

When he released her hand, Michelle had to shake her head to clear the questions in her mind and release the flutter from her stomach.

“We Charlestonians are proud of our Southern heritage. I do still have the accent, but I can turn it on and off now that I’ve been in D.C. for so long. You should hear me when I go home.” Michelle then checked her watch. “Actually, we need to finish our drinks. They’ll be closing soon.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Rashad said, glancing around. “I think they’ve closed the doors already. They’re just waiting for us stragglers. Hey, if you can stay a little late next week, we should walk along King Street. They stay open later, and they have bunches of shops and galleries—art, jewelry—”

“I know. My cousin’s wife—her name is Regina—she co-owns a mosaic and beadwork studio and gallery not far up King Street.” Michelle stood as Rashad paid their tab. “That’s how I first found out about the Torpedo Factory. What about you? Are you from D.C. originally?”

“No, but my family is from Baltimore, and we’d come down every so often.” Rashad also rose, and they headed back to the promenade. “Then I came to D.C. to go to Howard, and then I stayed here to work. I’ve been here awhile. I don’t know where everything is, but I know most stuff.”

“Between work and home, I don’t get out a lot.”

“Now I know why you haven’t seen much of the D.C. area. I’d like to show some of it to you if you’ll let me.” His tone was soft, but then he straightened, and in a matter-of-fact voice, he added, “If that’s all right.”

“Maybe after the semester is over. I can do more over the winter break and over the summer.”

They were retracing their steps along the waterfront, taking their time back to their cars.

“Tell me about being a graphic designer. What attracted you to that?”

“I love art, and I love working on the computer.”

“Ugh. That’s where we differ. I like paper and pencil or paint. I don’t know what I’ll do when we can’t read books, actual books, anymore.”

“I like that, too, but I like the computer, as well. And mind you, the day is not far off when everything you read will be on a computer tablet of some kind.”

“No, no. I don’t want to hear it.” Michelle covered her ears with her hands. “La, la, la—” She interrupted herself laughing, and Rashad started laughing, as well.

“Okay. I’m past my rage against the future. You may go on.”

“I’m not sure I should. I work for a web design firm, so everything we do is for the computer. But there are graphic designers in a variety of fields. I took to web design because I had to learn how to do one for a project, and I got hooked. It’s great bringing an organization to life on the screen. I guess I like what I do.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“And you?” Rashad asked. “Why advertising?”

“I love the artistic side of it,” Michelle said. “I don’t know much about the business side of it as yet. I don’t like the idea of fooling people or luring people with false promises. I want to produce art, and advertising is what I want to do because it’s art that everybody sees. It’s art without the hundred-dollar ticket price for the orchestra seat.”

“So you’re a Marxist revolutionary about art—art for the masses!”

“In a way. And don’t knock Marxism. From what I’ve read, Marx was quite brilliant. That’s my way of saying he’s dense as hell.”

Both laughed.