Decadence by Monique Miller

hadn’t
really noticed one another since he was a boy and boys were yucky
to me back then and I was a girl and had an invisible gaggle of
fictional cooties infestation on me since every girl had them as
far as every little boy had been concerned, not until the day he
came to school with a broken finger. He’d looked so sad, sitting
away from the other boys when it was time to play kickball out on
the playground. He couldn’t participate since our teacher had been
afraid that he’d hurt his finger even worse than it had been hurt
already. My heart broke just watching as his fell apart piece by
piece, not being able to participate in the raucous activities that
were a mere few feet away from him. I sucked up my pride. None of
the other kids were taking his obvious sadness into account as most
kids tend to do. Let the
adults handle it , had to be the theme of
nearly every five year old on that playground, but I couldn’t
ignore his broken heart. I hardly ever could.
    I sat near Chris that day, a little boy who
was only three months older than me, a little boy who I shared my
toy with that I’d had in my pocket that day. We’ve known one
another for over twenty years. Had one another’s backs when no one
else had ours.
    And now this. Now I was feeling something I
shouldn’t be feeling. I couldn’t believe my own nerve.
    I got up and went to the bathroom. Ran the
hot water for a shower. Ready to immerse myself under heat and
moisture. Let it wash away these feelings I couldn’t shake. Clear
my head. Clear all the excess of the last few hours from my
flesh.
    I wish I could be the old me again. The me
from years ago. The me who only wanted to be with one man. The me
who wanted a family, wanted to be a mother, wanted to be a good
wife, wanted nothing more than to come home from work and be loved
and give it in return. I avoided my reflection in the mirror. I
didn’t want to look at the version of me I’d see in it right
now.
    The hot water was welcome, felt great on my
skin. I let the steam obliterate the walls I was surrounded by so
that all I saw was a mist, like the kind that surrounds you in a
dream.
    I didn’t hear the door open, didn’t know
anybody else had come into the bathroom until the shower curtain
was being pulled aside. I hesitated to turn and see who it was, but
I felt them, knew who it was before I could bother to look.
    I felt him close in on me, start to touch me.
I hated myself that I wanted him to touch me. I hated myself
because I didn’t even want to bat his hand away.
    We said nothing to one another, just looked
at one another through the haze of steam from the hot water. I
didn’t want to say anything to him. I wasn’t sure of what I wanted
in the first place. Really, honestly, there wasn’t anything to say
at all.
    He grabbed the shampoo from the top shelf in
the corner of the shower wall. Got a good bit of the gel in his
hands. Started massaging that through my hair and onto my scalp.
His heavy masculine hands felt good working the lather through my
hair and on my skin. He made sure he had all of it rinsed, and then
he repeated the process. Got the loofah, got it nice and sudsy,
washed me from head to toe. Got the towel and did the same to me.
Washed me as he’d done before. Washed me in silence. Washed me with
sorrow in his eyes for more than I knew he’d been letting on. He
wasn’t telling me everything. No one, no matter how well or how
long you knew them, no one told you everything.
    He washed himself. I stayed and watched as he
did. I stayed and remembered who we used to be and who we’d
become.
    Our parents had struggled. Our grandparents
had done the same. The people before us had done their best to make
sure that we’d be the best, that we’d have it easier than they
did.
    Now look at us. I didn’t even know how to
define us.
    Chris had been one of the few non-black kids
that lived in our neighborhood growing up. His mother’s parents had
grown up in around our way and that