Free Man Curse by Raqiyah Mays

thought of this particular conquest even more exciting.
    Over the next few weeks, the flirting episodes between Emmanuel and me became more intense and frequent. He’d see me at the Xerox machine and make an excuse to brush past, or hand over a stack of papers that needed to be copied. He’d try to take lunch the same hour as I did, and verbally flirt with me the entire meal—how he loved my lips, eyes, body, the way I chewed, and the pinkie I lifted when I drank from a glass. He’d talk to me about smoking weed, and I’d hang around after work so he could drive me to the train station while we puffed a joint together.
    Yet after months of foreplay, as summer green turned to autumn gold, I wasn’t taking the next step. I’d seen the future path of situations like this. Because my mother had already walked that road with a man named Larry.
    The truth is that the times I liked being around my mother were when she had a man. Those were the moments I recall her being happiest. I remember when she brought Larry home. He was a tall, skinny, milk chocolate–complexioned brother. Tiny freckles spotted his nose and a gruff goatee blanketed his chin. He was the only tall man I’d ever known not to play basketball or even like it. Hating the height-inspired stereotype, he chose instead to play with cars. Tinkering in classic rides like 1960s Mustangs and Corvettes, Larry drove a vintage ride with a classic rock music system. I usually knew when he arrived, because I’d hear the loud giggles coming from the back of his throat. It sounded like a laugh clogged in a mucusy sinus infection.
    Despite sounding of sickness, his humor was contagious, and the jokes made my mother crack up. The anticipation of his coming filled her with delight, lifting the heaviness of life and stuffing it away into a secret baggage claim. She’d fly through the house, humming sweet melodies. And float into the kitchen to whip up a light buttercream frosted cake. Pulling out pots, pans, and special plates, Mom would prepare an elaborately soulful feast of Larry’s favorites: golden fried whiting, spicy collard greens, creamy macaroni and cheese, and moist yellow corn bread. She’d slip on heels, squeeze into a fitted dress, curl her hair, retouch her makeup, and head to the door to let Larry in.
    â€œHoney, I’m home!” he’d always say as he walked in with an overstretched grin.
    â€œHey, Meena!” he shouted, seating himself at the head of the dining room table. A hot plate waited next to a cold beer. “How you doing?”
    At first I didn’t reply, instead staring at my fork, cheese clinging to my teeth.
    â€œSomebody’s talking to you, Meena!” my mother snapped.
    â€œFine,” I answered, cutting my eyes at Larry. “I’m done. I’m going to do my homework.”
    â€œIt should’ve already been done,” she hissed. “Get on my nerves . . .”
    At the time, I didn’t understand the resentment boiling my blood, bouncing from Mom to Larry. I was annoyed by her jaunts in Wonderland, coordinated with his visits. I wondered why she wasn’t as happy with me as she was in his presence. She never laughed out loud, eyes closed, head cocked back when we were alone. She never whipped up a holiday-size meal for me. And as relieved as I felt that the abuse and neglect stopped upon Larry’s arrivals, I hated the truth. How she would morph into a smiling Stepford wife and then switch back to her evil alter ego the moment he pulled out of the driveway. I understood enough to dare not take my mad Meena world out on Mom. So I found ways to project it onto Larry, mostly through one-word sentences and silence.
    It took months until I began warming up to him. Things changed the day he arrived with select company.
    â€œShe just jumped inside my car,” he said, holding the screen door open. “I don’t know her name.” Walking