The Truth?

The story I tell my family is that we met salsa dancing. I tell them we emailed all summer before our first date, during which I cooked for her—coconut rice and peas with fried plantain and steamed broccoli. But then I envision my grandmother’s knowing grin as she recognizes the romantic qualities of a man cooking for a woman. So I quickly direct their attention to her beauty, “She is a poet, a biologist, Ghanaian.” And they smile. Everyone, on some level, can appreciate a conservative front, even if it is only skin deep.

But it’s not entirely false either, just a rose-hue to color the grays of the pessimistic eye. You see the truth is I met her in Soma, a hip-hop club, while hunting with my wingman and unnamed player extraordinaire. Nor do I tell them that even in the darkness, her hips in her short skirt were as smooth as wheel-thrown pottery. Nor do I mention the fact that she wouldn’t give me her number and that that was the real reason for our email correspondence. But they do know that I care for her, maybe they even know that I love her, despite the fact that that information I most certainly omit. What’s curious though is that more than likely they wouldn’t care where or how I met her. Sure they enjoy hearing of our fairy tale encounter, the romantic dates, the charming courtship, and the innocent intentions. But what is probably most accurate is that I am afraid that the possibility of their judgment would bruise me.