«Fanm sa anba li natirel, li fè nèg pete rèl. Se pa zoom ki pou fè w wè li bonbe.»

Yani Martelly_Haitian Singer

Ethan

I pretend to be profoundly absorbed in my reading when Norabel makes her way toward me. The last thing I want is to give her the impression that I've been spying on her for the last hour. I did throw a few glances in her direction but it was simply out of curiosity.

She took notes during the webinar and asked many questions. I didn't mean to eavesdrop but given the fact that there's only the two of us inside the bookshop I picked up on what she was saying. From what I've heard this webinar was an introduction to a foreign internship program. Norabel is an applicant.

When it was time to introduce herself she did so in a self-assured manner, stating her name, age nationality, and major. When questioned about her thesis, she dived into the topic of her thesis with a mix of passion and confidence that made every word coming out of her mouth captivating. She did look my way a few times but I was lucky that when it happened my eyes were glued on the page of the novel I held in my hands. That's how she finds me now in the reading nook next to the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a nice view of a backyard garden.

"Ethan?"

Norabel calls out my name tentatively not wanting to disturb me. I fight back the urge to smile. I have barely paid attention to the words in front of me, I've already read that book anyways. When I look up, I notice her tote bag strap over her shoulder.

"How was the webinar?" I ask and immediately witness a gleam of satisfaction take over her eyes.

"It went very well. Thanks for asking." Her eyes fall on the book I'm holding. A flash of recognition crosses her expression and I expect her comment on it but when her attention returns to me she says, "I'm ready to leave now if you are."

Am I ready to leave?

It would be nice to get to know her some more, especially if we're about to cohabit during the time I'll be staying with my mother. Listening to Norabel talk about her thesis earlier sparked a curiosity inside of me that I find myself unable to shake off. Maybe that's just the journalist inside of me wanting to get a closer look into her personality.

"I've prepared some refreshments for you," Gladys the bookshop owner comes toward us holding a silver tray. There are two glasses of what looks like watermelon juice and some biscuits on a plate.

I stand up immediately to help her put down the tray on a small wooden table with a vase of red and yellow tulips in its center.

"You shouldn't have troubled yourself, Gladys, thanks a lot."

"You barely come to visit us anymore," she eyes me with motherly affection. "I surely hope you haven't forgotten about me."

Gladys is one of the oldest acquaintances of my mother. After my dad passed away even if I drowned myself in work to numb the pain I took some time to visit my mother from time to time and whenever I did, I would always find Gladys home. They both would usually be engrossed in a discussion about a current read and I remember how grateful I felt that Gladys allowed Mom to escape reality into fictional stories.

Over time Gladys kind of became a grandmother figure to me. There is more gray in her hair now and the skin around her gentle eyes has more wrinkles than the last time I saw her but one thing hasn't changed about Gladys, she still feels warm like a ray of sunshine.

"You'll be seeing more of me now," I tell her. "I'm staying with my mother for a while."

"How lovely! Make sure to bring this beautiful young lady when you stop by."

Gladys gives a pointed look toward Norabel and I can feel her embarrassment under the scrutiny. Luckily before it gets more awkward Norabel thanks her politely and Gladys leaves us.

I sit back and Norabel follows, lowering herself to the other seat across from the table. We both take a sip of juice. Pure bliss invading my taste buds.

"I apologize if Gladys made you uncomfortable," I feel the need to say because I don't want the atmosphere to be awkward between us. To my relief, Norabel doesn't seem much bothered by it.

"It's fine. She's very sweet. I have a friend back in my neighborhood, she reminds me of her. Though Ma' Elda is probably a decade older than Gladys."

I arch an eyebrow.

"You're friends with an old lady?"

Her expression becomes guarded.

"Yeah, so?"

"Nothing, it's just surprising I guess. Not many young people are friends with elders these days."

"And not many men read Danielle Steel these days."

I look down at the book I had in my hands, now closed next to the tulip vase. Its title stares back at me in big bold letters: Malice. My eyes t up. Norabel still is looking at me.

I smile. "Touché."

We both reach for a biscuit and I let her swallow her bite before asking, "So I take it you're a reader?"

"Not so much. My best friend however is obsessed with romance novels. She's the one who dragged me along during her Danielle Steel phase."

"Why does that sound like torture?"

"Her books are overly tragic for the most part until all of a sudden love is supposed to be the magical cure."

Well, that's one hell of a statement. I feel like there's a lot of unpacking to do with this so I lean back, my eyes never leaving hers when I ask my next question.

"Care to elaborate?"

Norabel sizes me up while taking a sip of watermelon juice and I stay composed staring right back at her. Maybe she's evaluating what's hidden behind my question. There's only one way for her to find out.

"What bugs me about romance stories in general–not just Danielle Steel books–is that most of the time the protagonists are these hugely messed up characters or they have to go through the most horrid trauma before they encounter their love interest and then boom! Suddenly that love story has cured all their wounds and they can finally be complete human beings. That is kind of a stretch don't you think? If only worked like that therapists around the world would prescribe falling in love to anybody who shows up depressed as hell. Problem solved."

She makes an interesting argument. I'll give her that. Except for the part where she failed to mention that love can bring out the good parts of someone's personality or at the very least trigger them. That's not a stretch. Now whether or not someone chooses to act upon that trigger is an entirely different matter. I could tell her that but she seemed so bent on her point that I choose to ask a more pertinent question.

"Have you ever been in love Norabel?"

She blinks.

That's not such a hard question. Is it?

She reaches for another biscuit, and pauses to consider its texture before answering, "I've been in a relationship if that's what you're asking."

I pick up immediately on the word "relationship" singular not plural. Does that mean she only dated once? She said she was twenty-two when she introduced herself during the webinar. Usually, people have many love stories to account for by the time they reach that age. Unless she's been in a relationship that lasted years before it abruptly ended. The journalist inside of me is craving to dig further but I know better. Now's not the right time to pry on her sentimental life.

I lean forward, resting casually my elbows on the table between us.

"No that's not what I'm asking. I said: have you ever been in love?"

Norabel looks out the window to the panoramic view of the backyard garden. While she seems lost in thought I take this opportunity to openly admire her silhouette.

She has gorgeous natural hair, type 4C I think, styled to make curly strands fall in front of her face. She artfully wrapped a red and yellow scarf around her hair. It makes her hairstyle look as mesmerizing as the tulip bouquet on the table. Her skin looks smooth, and I just feel like she's the type of woman who takes extra care of her chocolate-brown melanin.

Now I'd be lying if I said I haven't noticed her lips. Black women with big juicy lips have always been a weakness. I mean hear me out, women have their thing about tall, muscular men, right? Well for me it's their lips. The plumper they are the better. 'Cause there's just so many things you can do with lips like that, and vice versa... But I digress.

Norabel wears a sleeveless blouse over leggings that hug her frame in all the right places. When she looks back at me she doesn't seem surprised to find me looking at her. Even lost in her thoughts she probably felt my gaze all along.

"I think I was in love for a while," she finally answers my question. There's a vulnerability in her voice that she tries to cover up with a tough expression but I spot it nonetheless. "Now that I look back maybe it was just deep affection mingled with physical attraction."

Laughter escapes me before I have the chance to rein it back.

"What's funny about what I said?"

I can tell she's vexed so I quickly clarify, "I wasn't laughing at you. I just find it interesting that no matter who I ask that question, regardless of age or gender they often answer as if being in love is a set of criteria that need to be checked off a list. Like, you have to feel this type of way or be willing to do certain sacrifices to be qualified as being in love. I think that's a limited way to look at love. It reduces such a complex feeling and put in a box to which only a select few have access."

She crosses her arms as if she's ready to argue but then she surprises by asking, "How do you think people should look at love then?"

I don't miss a bit.

"As if it's a spectrum," I answer. "You can be on the lower part of the spectrum, for example, if it's a fling, a crush, or whatever you want to call it. Or you can be on the higher part of the spectrum depending on how deep are your feelings for the person."

This time Norabel remains quiet. I finish my glass of juice while she's thinking over my argument.

"If I'm following your logic about love being a spectrum, it means you were in love with every woman you ever went out with, that sounds..."

She doesn't finish her sentence but I can guess that she was about to say something not at all in my favor.

"Not all of them," I answer. "But there were nine women among those I got close to who made me feel on the spectrum for sure."

"That's real specific. How do you know it was exactly these nine women?"

"The same way you still remember exactly how you felt about your ex. Once it ends, it leaves a definite impact."

Norabel frowns. Her mouth opens for a retort that never comes so she closes it again.

That was bold of me to bring up her ex in the conversation as if I knew what went down between the two of them. But she didn't need to say anything about the relationship. I gathered enough cues from our exchange to be able to read between the lines.

Norabel suddenly stands up, securing her tote bag over her shoulder. She looks down at me and there's no trace of the amiable gaze that she had earlier during our conversation. Her eyes have now become cold daggers piercing through my stomach. 

"I'm ready to head back now," she says coolly then walks away without waiting for my answer.

Shit!

I might have royally screwed up by mentioning her ex.

***Chapter Endnotes***

"This woman is naturally shaped. She makes men scream. You don't need to zoom in to see that she's hot."  Lyrics from the song "Gen Bagay" by Yani Martelly feat Kenny released in 2019.