The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian Read Free Book Online

woman of me,” he confessed shyly, and I smiled to fill the empty space he left for my confession, made years earlier to a boy named Joel in high school.
    After we had been dating awhile, I wrote to Allison saying, “He’s not cute and cuddly but will brilliant and sophisticated do?” I thought she would write back with something like, “That’s even better,” or, “Could you find one for me?” But I didn’t hear from her at all until a couple of months later, when she called me out of the blue. “Is he there?” she whispered as soon as I picked up the phone.
    â€œAllison?”
    â€œIs he there?” she whispered again.
    â€œWho?” I asked.
    â€œI can’t pronounce his name. Your friend.”
    â€œShawki?”
    â€œYes. Is he there?”
    I glanced around my apartment. I knew Shawki wasn’t there, but the way Allison was whispering made me feel as if I were missing something. “No,” I said.
    â€œGood.” She was speaking in her normal voice now. “I need to talk to you in private. I think you’re making a mistake.”
    â€œWhat did I do?”
    â€œI think you should date someone American.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy?” Allison laughed. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Vanessa. Don’t act like you live in some separate world from the rest of us. You’ll ruin your reputation, for godssakes. You’ll never get married.”
    I looked around my apartment again. My print of van Gogh’s Starry Night was hanging somewhat askew, and I reminded myself to fix it later. I said, “I guess I should expect that from someone who doesn’t even have a college degree.”
    There was silence at the other end of the line. I stared at The Starry Night and tried to straighten it with my mental powers, cocking my head in the direction I wanted it to go.
    â€œHe’s not black, is he?” Allison asked finally. “Is he a black man?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “he’s light brown.”
    â€œWell, at least there’s that.”
    I started to cry a little. Tears dripped into the holes of the telephone receiver, and for a second I wondered if I could get electrocuted. “Don’t call me anymore,” I said.
    That night when Shawki and I made love, he asked if he had been my first. “Yes,” I whispered in his ear, “of course.” As soon as I said it, I was sorry. I had meant to give him something out of love, but instead it came out sounding like charity: Of course I’d give my womanhood to you, a black man. From that moment on, I couldn’t stop feeling I had something to prove.

    By summer, things had changed. Shawki had taken to going through my closet and dividing the clothes into two sections: those he liked and those he didn’t like. These soon became the clothes I should wear with him and the clothes I should wear by myself; then, simply, the clothes I should and shouldn’t wear. His least favorite item was a summer top with straps that tied over each shoulder. “Someone can pull the string and you will be exposed immediately,” he explained, moving it to the Shouldn’t side. I nodded gravely from my bed.
    Still, I didn’t break up with him. His distaste for exposed skin reminded me of Allison, which was vaguely comforting. I wore the shirt with the shoulder ties more and more, always leaving one of the strings loose so that it would eventually come undone. I mixed up the Shoulds and Shouldn’ts so that each time Shawki came over he had to reorder my closet. I spilled food on the Shoulds and shrank them in the dryer. I missed my sister.
    That summer, Shawki built a small sailboat from a kit. He painted the hull gold and stenciled NEFERTITI in black letters on the prow, along with a freehand ankh. It was a one-man boat, really, but Shawki was sure we could both fit. “You are skinny,” he told me.