"I'm coming," Sorell thought the sentence but didn't say it.

She wasn't expecting anyone, but she opened the door right away when she saw who it was.

"Aunㅡty," she exclaimed while holding her cheek. Her teeth still hurt despite the intervention. Sorell had the impression her gum throbbed. Mireille waited for a hug that never came. Sorell's enthusiasm remained blocked in her words.

Mireille stepped inside.

"Wha-aare you here?"

"You sent a message saying you were in great pain. Your mother said the flight back is expensive right now. Since I'm the closet, I came."

The woman didn't add how Sorell's mother told her to send her some money or to ask her daughter for some in her stead. Sorell didn't need an extra deception.

Mireille had no children. Unlike her sisters, she was dark. Things weren't much different in her youth. Like Sorell, she quickly got the ambition of making it by herself. She knew she wouldn't have a red carpet rolled out, and it was she who would have to weave hers.

Though without a child, Mireille loved children.

Her siblings had many kids, but she adored Sorell. The woman had a weakness for the mocha skin girl that resembled her. Mireille wished to boost and give the piece of advice she hoped someone had given her.

Mireille saw Sorell at all the stages of life, but the woman who stood before her in satin pajamas was unrecognizable.

"Ho-ow have you beeen?" Sorell asked.

Her aunt took off her Tods' loafers and followed Sorell. "Good, and you?" Mirelle returned as she observed the movements of Sorell's rod-like legs.

"I'mㅡ."

"Tell me the truth."

"I'm okaㅡ."

"Sorell," her aunt exclaimed.

"I'm an emotion-al wreck. I dun-no know whaa's going on. I'm just so unhappy."

The older woman sighed. Mireille wished she could pull her older sister's ears all the way back from Lagos to Paris. Her sister was never there when Sorell needed her, but she expected Sorell to back and fetch her money when she needed it.

"Have you had breakfast?" Mireille asked.

"No, I jus-wok uhp."

The woman got up and went to Sorell's kitchen.

Finding nothing, she returned to the living room, "I'm going out."

"But yu jus-go here."

"There's no food."

"Aunㅡhe,"

Before Sorell could finish, the woman was out. She grabbed her phone, "ㅡhmm, Naima, it's me, ㅡhmm, don't book me for the next two weeks. I have a personal matter to take care of. ㅡWhat, Then give back the advance."

"ㅡIf they don't want to work with me anymore, I'm fine. You-know-who pays me a month's salary and a round trip to New York to make her wig. Their photoshoots are pocket money for me."

Yes, the dark skin girl made it. Mireille left her little salon in Lausanne Swiss and went to impose herself as a makeup artist for POC models and stars.

Instagram was full of trending pics of singers, rappers, or actresses with her looks. Like Sorell, she suffered from the money extorsion from family members who boasted about her success but ignored her for the most.

Now her niece needed her, and Mireille dropped everything.

The woman went to the closest grocery store and bought ingredients to make a stew and things for breakfast. She would go to Château Rouge [area in Paris where one can purchase ingredients for Caribbean and African dishes].

She returned and found Sorell a little more prepped with her face washed and a robe that covered her bones.

Mireille knew Sorell didn't eat because she hated it. She was a person who needed company. Sorell ate when she didn't feel judged, but above all, she had to feel she wasn't having a meal.

Eating alone for Sorell was an endeavor. It brought her back to all the times her mother left her a note saying make yourself something.

When she did eat with her mom, it was to hear, "don't you see you're fat enough. ㅡLook her mowing that fufu in her mouth. ㅡThe budget is tight this month. Eat with moderation."

Sorell's diet always tilted from the bulimic side of the scale, where she compensated for the lack of affection with food, and later the anorexic side, where she exercised stringent control over her body's intake.

For Mireille, it was Sorell's silent cry for help.

"So, what's new?"

"Same oll, aun-he."

"That's not what my friend Twitter told me."

"Oh, aunㅡhe, don tell me yuㅡfollow all thaㅡnonsense."

"I saw some beautiful pics of you with a man that vaguely reminded me of someone who used to knock on your door wondering if you would come out to play."

"No, aun-he, don't tell me you remember, Ravan," Sorell exclaimed and held her cheek.

The painkillers weren't as effective as she expected.

Mireille wished to say it wasn't difficult to remember Ravan. He was the only friend who knocked on their door, even if later Petra became a regular face.

"He's a fine man."

Sorell smiled. Ravan was one hell of a sexy soul Jam.

"So?"

"Aunㅡhe, there's nothin-be-ween-him an-me. We're jus-friends."

"What's the pinch of regret I hear," Mireille asked.

"There's no regret. Ravan anㅡI, we're not meant to be."

"Says who?"

"Aun-he."

"Hmm, if you say so. How about Kwan Alai?"

"He's a paraㅡsi-te."

Her aunt burst out laughing, "you know nothing about him, right?"

"What else-is there-to-know?"

"He's very influential in Africa. He has friends in high places."

"I donㅡcare abouㅡhis influence. He could beㅡdhe son-of-who-ever I don't care. He's unbearable."

"He's handsome," Mireille added as she made the porridge. She bought her Nido powdered milk that one could not find in Sorell's posh area.

Sorell glared at her.

"What? He is a fine man."

"But it doesn't make him gooㅡone."

Sorell knew looks were nothing without a good heart, and she couldn't consider the man as anything else. On the other hand, Ravan had qualities she appreciated, and it was precisely because of that Sorell couldn't be with him.

Mireille posed a bowl before her, and Sorell wrapped her hand around the bowl. The heat of its contents filtered and warmed her hands, triggering the rare happy memories of youth when her aunt would come.

"How long arㅡyou goin-to-stay?"

Mireille smiled, "as long as you need me? Go on eat."

Sorell took a spoon, blew, and tasted. "Hmmm, it-hasn-changed."

Mireille, too began to eat when Sorell's phone began to ring. Her aunt watched the phone wobble without seeing a reaction from Sorell. "Aren't you going to pick up?"

"It's jusㅡRavan."

The woman cocked a brow, "and you're just going to let the man go on voice mail."

Sorell shrugged," he'll call back. Besides, I can't-speak."

Her aunt pulled on her ear.

"Awww, aunㅡhe."

"Sorell, you could a least send a message. You can't treat people like that and expect something from them."

"I'm not expecting anythin-he knows that. He's de one," Sorell pointed her hand at her phone, "he's the one hounding me."

"It's not hounding Sorell. With all people have to do these days. Calling to see if someone is okay shows one cares. Having one person thinking of you every day and calling shows they care. Show some respect and text him at least."

Sorell sighed, took her phone, and wrote:

Hi, sorry I can't reply.

I got my teeth filled yesterday.

My cheeks are swollen.

I can't speak.

"There, ㅡhapphe?" Sorell said and posed her phone that vibrated with an incoming message.

Sorell sighed, "I knew it. Now he'll wriㅡte all day."

"Sorell, you have nothing else to do. Answer the man."

Sorell picked up the phone and read the message.

Are you okay?

Do you need anything?

Let me know.

Ravan cared, and it hurt. The feelings for him were where she bottled them, and front stood all her fears. Sorell still believed the man thought he owed her something, and he would not or could not love Sorell without the glam-up because she hated that woman. There was no one else who could love that ugly woman.