“By the way, I got you a date,” she calls out before entering the vehicle. “Sewa will give you all the details after you get ready. Mwah. Love you!” The door slams shut, and she reverses before I can cuss her out.
Despite their thoughts and well-wishes, I don’t need a date for this event or any event. Niyi is a thing of the past, and I’m taking a well-deserved dating break for peace of mind. I should’ve done this after Cole, but that hiatus would’ve been out of fear and resignation.
Like my dad said on our Christmas Day phone call: “Take your time. It’s never too late for love.” Right before attempting to set me up with some new co-worker’s nephew.
“I promise, the guy is cute, and we vetted his suit.” Sewa drags me back inside to get started on my makeup.
My white dress has a semi-sweetheart neckline and gorgeous, crystal-encrusted piping along the bodice. The cinched waist lines up perfectly with my natural waistline, and to add to the glamour, I’ve paired it with a white, faux-fur stole. The best way to attract money from donors is to look like money. I already have the silver shoes and accessories picked out, so Sewa helps with my hair and makeup. After an intense wash day, I placed my thick hair in heatless rollers last night. With Sewa’s help, taking off the rollers is easy, and styling them into a wavy, old-Hollywood-esque style takes us less time than anticipated.
“All done!” Sewa exclaims, and I open my eyes to take in her handiwork. My makeup is flawless, the eyebags from sleepless nights poring over paperwork and intake forms are gone, and I look bright. Most importantly, I look like myself.
“You’re a miracle worker,” I say, hugging her. “Have you thought of doing this professionally?”
“Makeup or styling?”
“Both.”
“It’s on the table. Everything’s on the table till after I rest up and recover from decades of academia-induced burnout.”
“You’ll let me know if I can help in any way?” I ask.
“I will,” Sewa says. “Now, let me show you the guy.” She pulls out her phone, and at another time, I might’ve been moved. In the photo, he’s in front of a body of water, hair trimmed nicely but still sporting some length. His honey-brown skin glistens in the sunlight, and his face is all right—robust features, a sharp jaw. All regular things from a Black man; he’s not special.
“He’s cool,” I say, applying another layer of gloss.
“Cool?” Sewa asks. When I nod, she says nothing more.
“Where’s he meeting us? Here or there?”
Sewa looks me over, taking in her hard work. “Moyo, you are too fine! Again, I can be your date. Since you’re not keen on this guy.”
“As I told you, I’m not keen on any guy, and I said he’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s meeting us there.” She checks her watch. “Oh, shit. Where is time running to?”
The Boston Hospital Foundation Gala is hosted in a large conference space next to the hospital in case someone needs to be called for an emergency. The alcohol at the event is mainly for donors and guests. The medical staff must always be alert, so instead we sip on sparkling cider and make the donors think we’re indulging like them. No one cashes out like drunk people.
We meet the guy, Alex, at the door. He’s a perfect gentleman, who I can admit looks better in person in his handsome black tuxedo. He’s now sporting a buzz cut with a mustache and a little goatee.
Once we find our table, I leave Sewa and Alex to make my laps around the room. After spending countless minutes discussing the importance of early intervention across the different domains I work in—language delays,learning disorders, and neurodevelopmental differences like ADHD and autism—numerous donors bring out their checkbooks.
I’m making another lap around the room, watching for breaks in conversation or, better yet, a swarm of donors with too much drink and not enough conversation, when a voice draws my attention.
“You’re even more magnetic in your element,” a cool voice says from behind me, and I come face-to-face with someone I never expected to see. They extend a hand. I, and the countless people around me who stop and stare, recognize their face—it’s Mercury.
“Vinny Carr.” I plaster a smile and shake their hand.
Their smile is wide, every single tooth on display. They smell divine, a woody yet floral scent. If I wasn’t so shocked, I would ask what it was. They have on all black and a jacket with abundant gold detailing. Their locs are in an intricate bun on the top of their head. They look regal and important.
“Moyo, darling. We’re already well-acquainted. No need for formalities. Call me Mercury or Merc, whatever you prefer.”
Their presence is a surprise, but not an entirely unwelcome one. I scan the room for another face, to no avail. Mercury watches me, their bright smile unwavering.
“Mercury, can I interest you in donating to the early intervention fund for Black children?” This is the first time this evening I have mentioned the specifics of the fund. White donors can be finicky when they learn their money isn’t going to their demographic.
Before they can answer, the hospital’s CEO taps into the microphone.
“Unfortunately, that’s my cue. Please excuse me, Moyo.” Mercury walks off before I register their words.
