Chapter One
Monday
Khadijah
A blank Word document is the mortal enemy of black girl magic.
As I stare at the glaring screen, at six a.m., long before any of the other minions arrive, I search within for some melanin-inspired incantation. Because that’s what expected of me now that they let me sit at the table. My predecessor didn’t have to be magical to keep his job, or even get it in the first place. His privilege got him there. And his work philosophy was mix a little incompetence with a little politics to make a whole ass executive. So, why am I the one with imposter syndrome?
I let out a long sigh and then inhale the scents coming from my diffuser – patchouli and oud. They calm my spirit a little, but the words that I need are not coming quickly enough.
When they offered me the job my predecessor left, they lowballed me on salary. I knew they lowballed me. I had done the research on the market and I was aware of what the former Disaster Recovery Manager was paid. Mr. Incompetent resigned at two hundred twenty thousand and they offered me one hundred seventy thousand. I took it because it was a thirty thousand dollar raise and an opportunity to lead. But my boss, Maggie, made sure to articulate that me keeping my new gig was contingent on a successful disaster recovery test. A contingency Mr. Incompetent never had.
In my five years here at Graham Investments we’ve never had a successful disaster recovery test.
As the Disaster Recovery Analyst, I pretty much ran the nuts and bolts of the tests over the five years, but I wasn’t in position to make decisions. Every year, I’d given my former boss a whole risk register full of all the reasons why we wouldn’t be successful, and he’d ignored me every stinking time.
Now, it was all on me to execute, and I had the power to change all the things that were broken. I had the opportunity to prove myself worthy. No. Scratch ‘the opportunity’.
I had to prove myself worthy.
There are footsteps in the aisle outside my cubicle. Aargh. Who else is here this early? I thought I’d get at least two hours of uninterrupted thought.
I tilt my head just far enough to see who’s coming. Damn. It’s Bill’s okele-dokele ass. Not only do I see the top of his head and shellacked hair at the end of the row, but I smell his Walgreen’s after shave. It smells so strong that you’d think he mixed it in his bath soap, laundry detergent, and mouthwash. The scent legit comes out of his pores.
And, as if this isn’t enough, he’s humming. All the magic of the motherland leaves my body and I slump in my seat.
“Well, good morning Khadijah,” Bill sings. Yes sings. And he always incorrectly emphasizes the last syllable of my name making it sound like KhadiJAH instead of KahDIjah which is the accurate pronunciation. Like he was letting out a karate chop or praising the Most High. Either way it was annoying.
“Hi Bill.”
Before he plops down in his cube that is directly across from mine, he drops a greasy bag onto my desk. I look at the bag and then look at him for an explanation.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I haven’t had breakfast yet…”
“It’s a muffin. You need breakfast.”
I take the muffin out of the bag and want to call it a bamuffin. A big ass muffin. ‘Cause this thing is huge. I calculate the carbs that must exist in this thing and place it back in the bag.
“Maybe I’ll have it later. With some tea.” I’m not eating this thing. “Or, even for lunch.”
Bill’s nostrils flare a little and his upper lip quivers. I know he’s annoyed, but he’s also overbearing.
“It’s organic and gluten free. Better than anything you might get in the cafeteria.”
“Well, thank you, Bill.”
“You’re…wait…you changed your hair.”
Oh God. Here we go…
“It’s all twisted, shiny, and long. And there’s a different color in there.”
I expertly bob and weave as Bill’s aftershave and muffin-ed fingers reach out to touch my new thigh length box braids.
“Bill, you’ve seen my hair in braids before.”
“Not like these.”
Okay. I have to extend Bill a little bit of grace here, because I do look like a golden-maned goddess. Real talk, if Beyonce was casting for a take-me-back-to-the-motherland video right here in our parking lot, I’d be an extra. Shit, if I could dance, I’d probably be booty-popping right next to Queen Bey. I look that damn good.
I bat his hand away again. “Don’t touch my hair, Bill. We’ve established that. You have to ask before touching a person.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend you.”
“Not offended, but super, duper busy. Disaster recovery test time.”
His lips form the tiniest of o’s (due to his lack of lip surface area). “Oh, crunch time,” he says as if he understands.
“Uh huh. Totally gotta focus.”
He waves his hand toward my diffuser. “Is that why you’ve got your aromatherapy happening here? To help you get to your Zen space.”
“Yes. You do get it. Thank you so much for understanding if I’m a little short with you over the next few weeks.” Translation – don’t effing talk to me.
“Is it okay if I still bring you food? You need nourishment. Gotta feed the Zen.”
No, Bill, I don’t want none of your bamuffins.
“Yes, Bill, that’s okay. A girl has to eat.”
Bill makes a noise that sounds like a satisfied chirp and slithers his ass over to his seat. I think I’m gonna book a conference room for the next three weeks just so I can work in peace. Because between translating my thoughts from sistagirl to wypipoese and silencing the imposter voice, I’m going to give myself the blues trying to locate and then practice the elusive and fleeting black girl magic.
Chapter Two
Carson
I have the Monday morning blues.
No. That’s not quite right.
I have the Monday-morning-didn’t-have-sex-all-weekend-even-though-I’m-married-blues.
I roll over onto my side and look at my still sleeping wife. I try to imagine what her body looks like underneath the protective gear she calls a nightgown. The thing comes down to her ankles. It’s so long it can’t even rise up in the middle of the night and get tangled around her waist giving me access to a thigh graze.
Veronica smells faintly of the apple scented bubble bath I bought her for Christmas. When I bought it, I imagined her taking long baths, sipping wine, and preparing herself for her wifely duties. But she sits in that deep, jetted tub, answering emails from her work phone. When she gets out of the bath, she goes directly to bed. Wifely duties left undone.
The top two buttons of the nightgown have loosened over the course of the night. There’s almost a hint of visible cleavage. I watch her chest rise up and down in even steady breaths. She’s still asleep…so…it shouldn’t hurt if I just help the next button come loose.
Now, I can see the dip between her breasts, and a sliver of nipple. One more button and this little scene goes from PG to adults only please. And why not?
The next button doesn’t come undone as easily as the first. I can’t just slide it open. I have to tug a bit. Her breathing doesn’t change though, so I must be good or…
“What are you doing Carson?”
Damn.
“I’m enjoying my wife’s body.”
“It feels creepy as hell.”
“Really? Me touching my wife of ten years feels creepy?”
Veronica snatches her nightgown closed and pulls the blanket up to her neck.
“Not only does it feel creepy,” she says, “but it’s rapey.”
Rapey!
I can’t jump out of bed fast enough. The erection I’d cooked up, looking at her breasts has fizzled into flaccidity. What wife says that to her husband and means it?
“You know, work is stressful. I would love for my wife to help me relieve that stress.”
“Why do you keep saying my wife? I have a name. I am a person.”
“You’re supposed to be my person!”
“You don’t own me, Carson. I am mine.”
“Well, when can I get straddled by your thighs?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Maybe when you stop being disgusting.”
“I’m disgusting?”
“Yes. Right now, you are disgusting, and I don’t want sex from you.”
“What if I get it somewhere else?”
She laughs. No, she cackles. It was an idle threat, but the shit wasn’t that funny.
“You think I can’t get anyone?”
She grabs a tissue from the nightstand and wipes tears from her eyes. She can barely catch her breath from laughing so hard. Finally gathers her composure.
“You’re too lazy and too cheap for a mistress,” she says, “but if you do get one, focus on someone who likes oral sex. I’m not doing that anymore.”
“You’re not doing that anymore? When did you ever do it?”
“My mouth is small. It wasn’t made for that.”
She does have a tiny mouth. Her lips might as well be lines drawn on her face with a brand-new mechanical pencil. But she doesn’t even try. Last time she attempted was years ago, and it felt like her mouth was made of sandpaper, teeth, and glass shards.
Even though she thinks I can’t, I could totally pull a mistress. I’m not lazy at all. And I’m definitely not cheap.
Unfortunately, I am too broke for a mistress.
“So, are you saying we can’t have sex?”
“You can have all the orgasms you want. You don’t need me for that.”
She puts a mask over her eyes and turns her back to me.
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
“I am not going in until ten.”
“Must be nice.”
“Carson, you’re the only one who goes in at the ass crack of dawn.”
Veronica knows exactly why I go to work early. Unlike her, I didn’t get the benefit of prep school, and the Ivy League. I had vocational school, a deadbeat father and an alcoholic mother. I am always at risk of being on the chopping block.
So, I work harder than anybody. I get there earlier. I stay later.
Anyway, the most important thing I did for my career is marry Veronica’s blue-blooded, Ivy League educated, Veronica Ingalls Wilder looking ass.
So, she’s right. I’m probably not going to find a mistress. I’m going to take my baby oil, and have a long, stress-relieving shower.
Then, I’m going to work.
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