I sat her down at the edge of the table. My body parted her legs.
“Are you okay, my baby?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
I smoothed her hair down.
“Good then. Let’s get dressed. We’re leaving. No need for clothes. You won’t have them on where we’re headed. We won’t be gone long enough for you to change successfully.”
Glorious.
Gracious.
Gorgeous.
Royce’s natural beauty was radiant.Refreshing. With the pencil pressed against the sketch pad, I tried my damndest to capture every detail of her essence. Rest was her wheelhouse. Her retreat was required to power her presence.
I admired her most when she was recharging. Women carried such heavy loads. No man could ever truly understand their inherent nature. And, though I didn’t understand the daily struggles of womanhood, I acknowledged them. I knew they existed and I refused to ignore them.
Royce could sleep for days and I wouldn’t wake her. I craved her rest as much as her body. She was better when exhaustion wasn’t altering her cognitive functions.
My cell vibrated against the cushion of the couch. I peered at the screen, finding my mother’s image filling the background. My heart expanded another inch.
“Good afternoon, Mother.”
“Ishmael.” She sighed.
I straightened my spine and lowered the pencil.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Yes. Everything is fine. I’m just worried. I’m worried about you, Son. You’ve been so–so distant lately.”
“Not my intention. Never my intention. I apologize if it has been this way for you.”
“I’m just worried. I want to make sure this campaign isn’t getting the best of you.”
“Nah. Not the campaign.”
There was a long, pregnant pause.
“Ishmael?”
“Her name is Royce, Mother. She’s getting the best of me.”
“Son…”
I looked over the sketchbook, prayerful I hadn’t awakened my baby.
“Yes?”
“I felt it–”
“Felt what?”
“She’s lovely.”
“She is.”
