Kento Parsons

 

Wednesday, July 12

A few days have passed, and I still haven’t heard from Vanessa.  I wonder if everything is okay.  Before last Saturday I only called to confirm our date.  It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to her. I just thought it best if I didn’t give her too many opportunities to find out what we were doing on our date.  Now that it’s over, I can talk more freely.

I have a few minutes before my next Art History class begins.  I reach out to her again.  I dial her number and the call goes straight to voicemail.  The phone doesn’t even ring.  It’s like she’s turned off her phone.  That’s odd.  I try her work number.  A middle-aged woman with a Spanish accent answers.

“Thank you for calling the Museum of African-American Fine Art.  This is Maria.  How may I direct your call?”

“Good afternoon, Maria.”  I impatiently tap my finger on the desk.  “May I speak to Vanessa Monroe, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Kento Parsons.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Parsons, but Ms. Monroe is unavailable today,” she says in a professional tone.

“Do you know when she’ll be available?” I ask calmly.  “It’s kind of urgent that I speak with her.”

“Kind of?” she asks.  “Again, I’m sorry, but Ms. Monroe isn’t available.  I’d be glad to take down a message for you.”

Exasperated, I ask, “Can I be transferred to her desk phone, please?”

“Of course, hold one moment.”  Then she’s gone; replaced with intermittent beeps.  Vanessa’s voicemail greeting fills my ear.

“Hey, it’s me,” I sigh.  “I haven’t been able to reach you in a few days.  I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.  Uh, call me as soon as you get this.”

I sound so needy, it’s pathetic.  I regret calling as soon as I hang up.

 

 

Thursday, July 13

It’s been five days.  I don’t know whether I should be worried for her safety or if this is some cosmic payback for all the fucked up things I’ve done to women in the past.

If something’s happened to her, Tabitha would let me know.  Besides, we had a great time.  I was sure we’d see each other again.  So why isn’t she answering her phone or returning my calls?

The last time I communicated with Tabitha, it was by text.  I haven’t actually talked to her in two weeks.  I’m not sure how much help she’s going to be, but I need to get a hold of Vanessa.

I put the test I’m grading to the side while I call Tabitha.  Her phone goes straight to voicemail.  This isn’t good.

I refuse to believe Vanessa’s avoiding me, just like I refuse to believe something happened to her.  Maria, the museum secretary, wouldn’t have been so efficient at her job if Vanessa was in any danger.  Maybe this has nothing to do with me.  Maybe she had a family emergency.  That still doesn’t explain why she couldn’t call or text me.

I try focusing on grading the papers from this morning’s exam, but I can’t.  The last thing I want is to give an A to someone who deserves an F.   I put the tests back down, grab my keys and leave my office.  

“Hey, Ken.”  Louis, my co-worker, stops me.  “I was coming to see if you wanted to grab some lunch.”

“I can’t, Lou,” I answer as I try to walk around him.

He blocks my path.  “You sure?  I thought maybe we could catch up.  I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about the department position that’s opened up.  Are you going for it?”

It’s just like Louis to be friendly in order to find ways to compete with me.  Normally, I’d play his game, but today I’m a man on a mission.

“Louis, I really can’t talk right now,” I hope he can sense the urgency in my tone.

“What can be more important than your career track?” he asks, astonished.

I went from having the best date of my life to having my muse fall off the face of the earth.  Now my co-worker chooses the wrong time to play office politics.

I try to be direct, yet respectful.  “Louis, this really isn’t the time.  When I get back, we can have our usual pissing contest, but for now, can you please step aside?”

I don’t know if it’s my tone or the anger in my eyes, but Louis backs away.  I can feel him staring as I walk away.  Great, another relationship I’ll have to repair.  

I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I head toward the parking garage.  Once in my car, I pull up the GPS and drive over to Vanessa’s house.  I feel like I’m going crazy.  What do I expect to find once I’m there?  If she answers the door, what can I possibly say that won’t make me sound like a lunatic?

This can either be a great idea or a horrible one.  Either way, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.  I pull into her driveway and see her SUV.  My heart beats faster as I turn off the ignition.  I walk down the sidewalk.  I ring the doorbell.  There’s no answer.  I lean closer to the door, trying to listen for Cairo, but I don’t hear him.

I jog to my car, back out of the driveway, and head towards Tabitha’s house.  As I pass by Tabitha’s place, I don’t see her car in the driveway.  At this point, I don’t bother stopping.  I keep driving in the direction of USC.

I can’t believe I’m behaving this way.  Women chase me.  I don’t chase them.  This is crazy.  How can one woman disrupt my entire being in a matter of weeks?

My cell rings while I’m stopped at a light.  I hope it’s Vanessa.  I reach for it and my heart sinks.  It’s my father.  He’s the last person I want to speak to right now.  However, if I don’t answer, he’ll know something’s up.

“Hey, Dad.”  I loosen my tie.

“Hello, Son. How are you?” his gravelly voice sounds on the other end.  

“I’m good,” I lie.  I seem to be doing that a lot these past couple of weeks.  “I’m just trying to get used to my summer schedule.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.  “Your mom and I would really like to see you.  She mentioned something about you coming out to see us.”

“Yeah, I plan to come out there once classes end in a few weeks.”  I hope he can’t sense my impatience.  I want to get off the phone so he doesn’t have enough time to figure out that something is wrong.

“Great!  We really miss you, Son,” he says.  “We haven’t heard from you as much as we used to.  I hope everything’s okay.”

This is the second time he’s asked about me. “Yeah, everything’s fine.  Like I said, I’m just getting used to my schedule, trying to make sure I have time to work on my own projects.”

“Yes, of course,” he chuckles.  “For a moment there, I thought maybe you met someone.  When your brothers met their then-girlfriends, they disappeared on us, too.  They didn’t do that until they met someone they were serious about.  I assumed the same about you.”

I wish I could tell him I met someone.  She’s funny, smart, beautiful, and she’s black.  Unfortunately, now isn’t the time, especially since she’s not talking to me.  He’d get a kick out of that.  What did I tell you?  he’d say.  I told you what they’re like.

“Nah.”  I reach up to loosen my tie, only to realize it’s already loose.  “I’m just working.  Nothing special’s happening here.”

“Well, I hope it does,” he says.  “I know we don’t usually see eye to eye on some things, but I want you to find the kind of love that your mom and I have.”

Where the hell is this coming from?

“Thanks Dad, I appreciate it,” I say. “Uh, listen, I’m pulling into work.  Can I call you back?”

“Yeah, let us know more about your schedule when you can.”

We say our goodbyes before ending the call.  What has gotten into my parents?  That’s the second time in two weeks they’ve mentioned me settling down.  I know they want that for me, but they’re not going to be open to who I want to settle down with.

This past week has been pretty emotional.  I’ve gone from being on cloud nine to being a needy shitshow.  Even though Vanessa has been on my mind, I’ve been pretty good at restraining myself from calling her every day.  However, this restraint has only led me to take out my frustrations on anything and anyone who isn’t Vanessa.  

My mood at work has some of my colleagues wondering if I’m okay.  A few of them have resorted to giving me a wide berth.  I’ve been especially hard on my students this semester.  They’re probably wondering what the hell they got themselves into.  Art History is supposed to be easy and boring, and here I am making it their worst nightmare.  

My boys know something’s up, but, like my co-workers, they’re keeping their distance.  Maybe it’s best I talk to one of them.  They’d probably tell me I’m acting crazy.  Even still, having one of them talk some sense into me would get me to chill out.  The only one who comes to mind is Ezekiel.  

“What up?” his baritone voice answers after the fourth ring.

“Hey, Zeke,” I say. “How you been?”

“Alright.  I’ve been a little swamped at work, dealing with this business proposal,” he explains.  “I’m glad this is a personal call.  One more business call and I would’ve blown a gasket.”

He chuckles in my ear.  “What’s going on with you?”

I explain my date with Vanessa and the aftermath.  “So, what do you think?”

“Man, did you call me for my opinion or did you call for a black person’s opinion?” he asks.  “I don’t have some secret code that helps me communicate with other black people.  If it was like that, then black people wouldn’t have half the problems we have.”

“No, it’s not because of that.”  I actually hadn’t thought of it like that.  “I just want to know if I offended her again.”

“You didn’t go by her job again, did you?” he asks.

“No, I don’t want to come off like a madman.”  A young woman gives me a dirty look as she strolls by my car.  I really wish people would mind their own business.  I put my window up and turn on the air conditioner.  

“Honestly, it could be anything,” he says.  “You need to take a step back.  Find something else to do.”

“I know.  You’re right,” I sigh.  “After the last time, I can’t help but feel like karma has come out to play.”

“Could be,” he says.  “I wouldn’t sweat it, though.  She doesn’t strike me as the type to have someone wondering about who she is.”

“Thanks for the advice.  Really, I appreciate it.”

“No prob,” he says before hanging up.

Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I try her again.  When I get her voicemail, I hang up.  I call Tabitha again and get the same response.  

Zeke’s right.  I need to find something else to do.  I’ve obsessed over this long enough.  There has to be a reasonable explanation for this.  Vanessa isn’t the kind of woman who’d spare me the truth.  She’d choose her words carefully, but she’d let me know where she stood.  

I drop by my office to pick up the exams along with anything else I need to work on.  I head home to clear my head.  There’s no class tomorrow, so I’ll have a couple of days to review these exams and post the grades.  Right now, I need to unwind.

 

 

There’s a loud banging at my front door.  It must be one of the neighbors from across the hall coming to complain about the music.  I’m normally respectful of the noise level, but I admit that sometimes I push it.

I turn down the volume, then head toward the door.

“I’m sorry about the music,” I say as I open the door.  “I was in the zone.  I’ll try to keep it down…”

 

 

 

“You have me.  Until every last star in the galaxy dies.  You have me.” – Amie Kaufman, “Illuminae”

 

 

Vanessa Monroe

 

Friday, July 14

8:45PM

I walk toward the large, gray industrial building.  This used to be an old paper factory.  It was shut down over fifty years ago and left for dead, until a young developer with loads of money swept through and converted the abandoned warehouses into lofts.

A young couple who look to be in their twenties burst through the door.  The guy is complaining about something while the girl keeps walking.  She’s dressed to kill.  I slip through the door as the young man stomps after the girl.  The hallway is dimly lit.  I look at the piece of paper again to make sure I have the apartment number correct.  There’s no elevator, so I head up the stairs to the third floor.

If there’s any doubt he’s home, the music blasting into the hall dispels it.  I pull my mirror out of my bag to check my makeup once more.  I pull my braids over to one side and smooth down my dress.

I knock on the door, but there’s no answer.  He has to be home.  I knock again, and still no answer.  Don’t tell me he’s one of those people who leaves the music on when they’re not home so someone will think twice about breaking in.

I bang loudly on the door.  I didn’t come all this way for nothing. Please God, let him be here.  I need to explain everything.

Suddenly, the bass isn’t thumping as loudly as before.  The broken-hearted crooner isn’t shouting his pain through the walls.

The door opens as he says, “I’m sorry about the music.  I was in the zone.  I’ll try to keep it down…”

He stands before me wearing paint-stained blue jeans that hang off his ass.  His chiseled chest is bare, except for a few drops of paint, and  his hair is somewhat messy.  I missed him.  I didn’t realize how much until now.

I smile.  “I apologize for coming by unannounced.  Tabitha gave me your address.  I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”

Kento stands stock still.  His deep set eyes are smoldering.  I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me or if he’s upset with me.  I know I owe him an explanation.

“May I come in?” I ask.

He steps back, opening the door to let me in.

“I came by as soon as I landed,” I say as I walk into his home.  The loft is full of modern furniture with clean lines.  There’s absolutely no clutter from what I can see.  It looks like him.  “It’s been a hectic week.  I wanted to see you right away.”

I turn around to face him when I see myself.  Well, it’s not me as much as it is a portrait of me.  Slowly, I walk toward the canvas.  The eyes staring at me look exactly like mine, down to the gold sparkle.  My cheekbones are shaped just right.  My lips are more gorgeous on this canvas than they are on my face, but  he even got the exact placement of freckles correct.

My god, there’s so much detail.  Every time he looked at me, he was studying me; memorizing every line, every pore.  He even got the baby hair around the edge of my face correct.  This portrait is more beautiful than me.

I’m so enamored with it, all I can say is, “This is me.”

I turn to face him. “You painted this?”  Obviously he did, but I just can’t believe it.

“I started working on it before our first date,” he admits as he walks slowly toward me.  “It’s not finished yet.”

I stare at it.  “It’s amazing.”

“You don’t think it’s weird that I’m doing this?”

If it were anyone else, it would seem weird, but it’s Kento.  This is who he is.  He’s an artist.  Is he a tortured soul?  Maybe, but I wonder how much of it is his own doing.

Looking over my shoulder, I say, “It’s one of the most flattering things anyone has ever done.”

He steps closer to me, but I sense some hesitation.  Yeah, I definitely made a mistake.

“A few moments ago, you said something about just landing?”

“Yeah, I just got back in town.  That’s what I wanted to tell you,” I begin.  “Shortly after you left my place, I got a call from my boss.  I had to fly to New York Sunday morning to meet with a colleague at another museum.  We had a bit of a situation with an eccentric artist and a grant proposal.

“We flew to London then Paris, back to London, and finally ended the week in New York.  I got your messages, but I didn’t have time to call back with airport security, the time difference, and work,” I rattle on as he listens intently.  “I was worried you’d think I had forgotten about you.  I tried calling you, but I couldn’t get through, so I tried your office, but the voicemail system wouldn’t pick up.  I couldn’t leave a message with the receptionist because of the time difference.”

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugs.  I know he’s lying.  “I have to admit, I was worried.  I wondered if I’d done something wrong.  I couldn’t reach you, so I stopped by your house.”

His cheeks blush from embarrassment, but it’s understandable, all things considered.

“I had Tabitha drop me off at the airport,” I explain.

“I called her, but I didn’t get an answer from her, either,” he says.

“Tabitha’s still in India.  I actually drove her car over here so she won’t have to pay those ridiculous parking fees.”  I feel horrible.  “I’m really sorry for leaving the way I did.”

He looks relieved.  “It’s no problem.  You had a work emergency.”

“Yeah, but I feel like I should’ve tried harder to connect with you.”  I reach up to caress his face.  “You were clearly worried and upset.  You had every right to be.  I should’ve done a better job in communicating with you.  Can you forgive me?”

He laughs, “Of course.”

He steps toward me, wrapping his arms around me, bringing me closer.  I drop my purse on the floor, running my hands up his arms and down his bare chest.  His skin is so soft and smooth.  Heat radiates from his body.  His eyes are undressing me as I link my arms around his neck.  We kiss tenderly.

He removes my blazer revealing my strapless dress.  He gently kisses my neck, along my shoulder.  The trail leads to my collarbone as he sits on the arm of his sofa.  I stand between his legs as his hands move down my back to my hips.  He rests his head on my chest as we hold each other.  I kiss the top of his head.

He looks up at me as I ask, “Have you ever used body paint before?”

A smile slowly begins to form on his boyish face.  “Yes, I used it on a model some time ago.”

“Do you have any right now?”

“Mmhmm,” he answers, moving his hands up and down my thighs.

“Would you ever use it on me?” I ask as his hands come to a stop. “You know, if you ever need a muse or want to try something new.”

“I always need a muse,” he stands up.  His tall frame forces me to take a few steps back.  “As a matter of fact, I need one tonight.”

I laugh.  “What about next week and the week after?  Or maybe next month or a year from now?”

He cups my face.  I rest my hands on his forearms, as he kisses me.  “Didn’t you hear what I said?  I always need a muse.”