Candles and You by Ja’Nese Dixon
"Stop staring at the man and say something?"
Imani found working with Adrianna at the bar was worse than working at the studio. At least at the studio she could pull rank and kick her out the office.
"What man?" She let out a long audible breath.
"The man that has you spilling drinks and stepping on my toes."
“Ouch!” She stomped on Imani’s foot and wiggled out of reach.
Imani had been preoccupied with trying to see the features of his face. The booth he selected was tucked away off to the side. The overhead lights barely illuminated the table top. It was the table repeat customers chose when they wanted to partake of the live music and robust menu and have privacy.
It was public yet private. So private they'd witnessed more than one heated exchange going on in that booth over the length of her employment. It wasn't called the make-out booth for nothing.
Imani stole glances at him for most of the afternoon. She could see the top of his arm covered in a white dress shirt and the swirled tattoo on his forearm. That must be his girlfriend. She reasoned as the olive-skinned brunette took her seat across from him.
"You think that's his girlfriend?" Imani whispered. Adrianna topped off the customer's soft drink and walked over to stand beside her.
"If she's not, she wanna be." She dried her hands on her apron.
Imani faced her, "What makes you say that?"
"That man is a sexual magnet, paid with a Titanium Card, and his eyes," she shook her head and raised her hand in the truth, "panty droppers."
"For real?" Imani hissed. The forced air behind panty made curiosity dance through her veins.
"For. Real." She glanced over at the table as if validating her statement. Her face twisting in agony and she nodded.
Imani glanced back over there. The last thing she needed was to stare into his panty-dropper eyes. She wanted to ask Adrianna more but a warning voice in her head warned her to leave it alone.
There was no room in her life for men. Life was hectic enough without adding sexy, magnetic, panty-dropping men to the equation and her panties needed to stay in place. The last man she'd given her heart passed her up for a bigger fish and left her without so much as a blink of an eye. Her time was better spent trying to find another job.
"Have you heard from your landlord?"
"I got a letter about a new owner. But they didn't mention the balance and I didn't either. I sent what I could, hoping it will hold me over."
$1250 a month times six months left her owing the new landlord at least $7,500. It might as well have been a cool million because she didn't have a hundred dollars to her name. She hated owing people.
She was ashamed to admit what she sent barely covered the late fees but she still had to pay the utilities at the studio on top of her own household expenses.
"How long you think that's going to last? You can't keep doing this to yourself. This dance studio is like a leech draining you dry."
“Why would you say that? What’s wrong with giving my students culture?” Imani stiffened at her harsh analogy.
"Ain't nobody got time for that!" She turned to Imani tossing a towel in the sink. "Culture won't feed you and pay your bills."
Tears stung her eyes. But she didn't have time to cry or feel sorry for herself. She needed a plan.
"Is he cute?" It was better to talk about the panty dropper than her landlord.
It was Adrianna's turn to shrug, "He's alright for a white boy. You know I like my papi chulo sun kissed, bilingual, and Spanish in his blood. Can't have my momma passing out on me."
"Indeed, your mom would pass out if you brought anything but a Hispanic man home." Imani laughed.
"That's why I keep my business my business." She tossed her blonde hair and headed to the other end of the bar to check on a customer.
Adrianna talked a good game but she had a man. Her traditional ways went to her core from cooking authentic Mexican food to Salsa dancing every Thursday night. Imani looked back at his exposed skin, it didn't look white but not brown either. More like a warm beige. His head turned in her direction and she felt trapped. Unable to look away, but unable to see his face either.
The young lady returned to the table and Imani spun around, facing the mirrored wall behind the bar. She glanced up into the reflection and watched him lean forward. The light caught his profile with his thick wavy dark brown hair. He smiled up at his companion.
Imani's stomach clinched. He had a deep dimple.
She watched the young lady leave the table carrying her purse and shoulder bag. They must be done for the afternoon. She wanted to see this mystery man for herself.
Violet’s Bucket List by Tuesday Embers
I slid into my sleeping bag on my belly, my fists stacked atop my mother’s memorial plaque, and my chin resting on my hands. The air was cold in the graveyard that night, but I was too fixated on my mother’s name to shiver. I stared down at the scripted font, recalling how many years we’d camped out in this very graveyard. I never guessed I’d be sleeping here without her – or with her in the ground like this.
My mother’s relatives were all in Mexico, so we’d scoured the graveyard for another Rodriquez we could pretend we were related to. Ana Concepcion Rodriquez didn’t have anyone else with the same last name around her, so we adopted her into our little circle, making her our own. We pretended she’d been stolen away from her wealthy parents at a young age, grew in poverty with nothing but gruel sandwiches, her morals and can-do attitude. Then when Ana was a teenager, she went in search of her family.
It was a tearful reunion when fake Ana was welcomed into the family she’d always known was out there. They showered her with love, kisses, presents, and an elephant because, well, Caty had a healthy imagination. Love, kisses and presents hadn’t seemed like enough to her.
In our rendition of Ana’s life, she’d died peacefully in her sleep as an old woman, surrounded by her family, and the gardener. Julio had admired her from afar as he’d pruned the roses at her family’s estate, but only ever got up the courage to kiss the back of her hand. We always brought flowers for Ana’s grave from fake Julio, swooning at the romance of their unrequited love.
We’d slept on Ana’s grave every year. Now that I had my mother in the ground, I knew where I would be spending every November 1st for the rest of my life.
Brady and Caty came back forty-five minutes later, their eyes wide as they rejoined me. “What’s up with you two? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” I let out a perfunctory laugh and clapped my hands at my terrible joke. The spirits of the dead were supposed to walk around on the Dia de Los Muertos, searching for treats and their loved ones. They were granted one night a year to rise from their graves and go bonkers, reuniting with family and friends who camped out on their graves to greet them.
“Nothing happened!” they both exclaimed, looking guilty. Then Caty folded herself into the sleeping bag and set a few pieces of my mom’s least favorite candy on her plaque, next to our row of sugar skulls. “How’s Mama?”
“I think she’d be glad her traditions didn’t die with her. I’m glad you guys came tonight. It wouldn’t be the same without you. Thanks for pushing me to get out of bed. I needed this.”
“Anytime,” Caty smiled, situating the lantern next to the gravestone, so we could see each other a little better.
I smoothed away a leaf that had fallen onto my mother’s no-frills plaque, studying her name and timeline as Brady tucked in between us. It was such a simple thing, the dash between her birth year and her death. “That’s all we get,” I mused in my shifting melancholy, tracing the line that summed up her entire life. “Just a dash to the end.”
Brady’s features grew tense, his eyebrows pulling together, and his mouth in a tight line. “We need to make our dashes count, then. Vi, you’ve only got four things on the bucket list. It’s time we started crossing them off.”
“Hello, we can’t afford France yet.”
Brady shook his head. “We can’t afford not to go. We can’t afford cancer. We can’t afford getting older. Now’s the time, Vi. We’re putting something on the calendar. By this time next year, I want France crossed off Violet’s bucket list.”
I shot him an appreciative smile. “But that list belongs to all of us.”
Brady smirked at me. “Then I guess we’ll all have to go.”
Brady’s finger traced the small engraved line with mine, and then Caty added her finger to the mix. We scooted closer to each other, knowing that we might not know what our respective dashes would hold, but certain we would go through it all together.
The Virgin and the Kingpin by Allyson Lindt
The December cold bit into Andrew’s face when he stepped into the evening. It was a nice change from the hot air blowing inside. The salt on the sidewalk crunched beneath his shoes, sounding louder than it should in the still night. He wandered the frozen path, past iced-over bushes and pine trees.
Susan stood near a balcony overlooking the mountainside. She didn’t look up as he approached, but when he reached her, she spun in the other direction and brushed past him. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He grabbed her arm harder than he intended, and she let out a half-groan, half-hiss. It wasn’t an irritated noise. She liked it? He dropped his hand away quickly. “You wanted to talk?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Her tone was dismissive. “You’ll enjoy your evening more if you find someone who doesn’t rattle whatever skeletons you and Mercy have, to keep you company.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s not what you think—I almost guarantee it—but you don’t want to hang out with a guy like me.”
“Because…?”
“I’m a bad influence.” That was as close to the truth as he cared to get. He didn’t mind weaving a tale, but he wasn’t fond of the one where he almost lost Mercy’s friendship.
“‘Kay. ’Cause I’ve never heard that before. I wanted to talk for a few minutes. It wasn’t like I was proposing we set up our gift registry.” A gust sliced through the night, and she shivered and rubbed her arms.
He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. And now she was a petite miss in an oversized coat, and that was more tempting. Damn it. He needed to remind himself why this fascination was unhealthy, prove to her she should be disgusted by him, and abide by Mercy’s request. “You’re not offering the kind of company I prefer.”
“And yet, you haven’t left.”
Good point. Why didn’t he let her walk away? Better question—why were they having this conversation outside? “You’ve got me curious as to what this is about.”
“You said you’ve helped people deal with performance issues.” She cringed and bit her bottom lip. “You know what I mean.”
Because sometimes he didn’t know when to shut his mouth and walk away. This time he’d do it consciously, though. He’d deter her once and for all. “I do know. And I was talking specifically about fucking on camera.”
She didn’t flinch. “You also said there was more to it. How does it work?”
“You don’t want details, Suzie-Q. It’s all about debauchery and fetish and getting off in public.” This way he could convince himself he’d warned her. It was hard to tell if the pink on her cheeks was embarrassment or from the cold. Either way, she’d ask for more information, then realize her mistake, and the discussion would be over.
“And there’s got to be a universal principal in there somewhere. Something I can use. I’ll filter out the screwing and process the rest,” she said.
