At Last

Not that it’s an excuse, but I didn’t know I was going to say it before I said it.

“She’s beautiful.”

The response from Tigist is quick. I don’t blame T because I’m being the worst right now.

“Ugh, okay, you fucking weirdo,” the phone held up to my ear grumbles back, carrying the words of one of the few people on this campus who really knows about my existence. Trust me, the last part’s intentional.

I can’t dignify that with a response so I just groan instead. Tigist is right (like always) and lets me know as much in the way her voice carries through the phone again.

“I’m just saying, you walk around like the most intimidating piece of shit and you can’t even say ‘hi’ to the girl you’ve been making googly eyes at for weeks? You wear leather and ride a motorcycle and hate everyone except, for like, 5 people,” Tigist screams, her voice high-pitched but not really angry – I’d be able to tell if she was angry.

T has a point, but my bike is efficient, so is the leather, and most people here are assholes if not also idiots. That doesn’t mean I try to be intimidating on purpose but I’m not complaining either because people should be intimidated by a black goddess of wisdom reincarnated who doesn’t feel like fucking around.

Tigist is absolutely fucking right. I mean – I’m pretty sure we were just talking about Roger from American Dad (there’s not enough time to explain why) but then I saw you – I mean Medha? – who I think you are, anyways. Now I’m standing outside, feeling stuck and for the first time in a long time, scared.

It’s fucked up on a lot of different levels, but you have to know how much I miss you, and how long it’s been since our last life together. I’m not saying I think you’ll instantly want to spend this life together too; I don’t have any expectations but it’s kind of distracting when I’m stumbling out of a campus coffee shop with a phone in one hand, a croissant in the other and I see you casually sitting under a tree, leaning against the wide base, and painting. It reminds me of the crushed berries and the mixes of special dye from special plants you’d make thousands of years ago when we spent half our days traipsing through the forests. That being said, it’s 2017, we’re in Southern California, and I really don’t need to be thinking about these things in the middle of a conversation I’m having with a witchy friend doesn’t mind calling me out on my shit (and can).

“I’m just saying – I think it might be her,” and if I intentionally mumbled that part so Tigist almost didn’t hear it, then it’s not like anyone else but her was around to chastise me for it (except maybe the universe).

“Oh no – who the fuck have you been talking to? Fate? You can’t just walk around looking for Medha because you thi-“

“You don’t get it,” is my instinctual response even though I have to literally shove my face into my palm because I’m, again, being the worst. The door of the coffee shop swings open again a foot behind me, which spurs me back into walking back to my bike, even though it’s in the opposite direction of where I think you are.

“Yeah, I don’t but I’m trying to,” Tigist responds, voice lower than before, and after a beat of silence from the both of us, she says, “By the way, hurry the fuck up or you’re going to miss out on some of these special brownies I know you love.”

I can’t help but laugh, because yeah, I can hear Jai yelling in the background about the oven being turned off and them being ready to ‘shovel this shit’ in their mouth. The ideas of Tigist’s triple fudge, THC infused brownies have me moving a bit more quickly despite my instinct to linger.

If I turned twice to look at maybe-Medha, maybe-you on my way to where I parked my bike, then that was for me, and me alone, to be embarrassed about.

--

By the time we (we being Tigist, Iza and Jai) carpooled into Iza’s beat up red truck to see Fire! Hot! Fire! perform at The Underground, the brownies start kicking in to give us a nice high for the rest of the night. Tigist seemed to always get the dosage just right no matter who ate them, and I’m sure it has something to do with all of her cooking tasting like magic.

We’re kind of fucking around at the edge of the park across the street from The Underground (which, as much sense as it would make, wasn’t underground), dancing to the music that can be heard from outside. Iza nudges me and I’m high so I poke Iza’s nose and then their chin where their lipstick matches the blue dye in their facial hair and beard before raising my eyebrows at the look they’re giving me.

“What?” I ask Iza, sitting on the bench next to them as Jai and Tigist are shimmying and languidly dancing in front of us.

“Don’t freak out but, is that the person you’ve been talking about?” Iza asks, their lips brushing against my collar bone and casually nods towards the side entrance of The Underground.

I can see you (it has to be you), wearing a skintight red dress with a bright red headwrap that reminds me of a crown. The hoops on your ears glint in the soft light of the one bulb up above the side entrance, and I can see the reflection that comes from the rings stacked on your left hand. I’m so sure it’s you, and I’ve never been wrong before but…

“Oh my god, it is!” Iza coos in my ear, breaking me out of a momentary trance, their head resting on my shoulder while their hand picks up mine and presses a gentle kiss to the inside of my palm. I shouldn’t be mortified, but I somehow am, slumping further down on the bench and feeling warmer than I did a second ago wearing this heavy leather jacket. Even with it being night outside and how dark my skin is, I’m sure that there’s a blush stretching from the back of my neck, underneath the heavy and long braids that flow down my back.

“You’ve gotta go introduce yourself,” Iza says again, lips pressed against my ear so I hear their words clearly, even as I throw my head into their lap and groan.

It shouldn’t be this nerve-wracking to meet you again, but…

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Iza encourages me, fingers rubbing underneath my hair and at the tension in my neck. I know they’re right. (When have people blessed by the Orishas ever steered me wrong?)

Even if this isn’t what I think it is, I have to see, to figure it out so I can stop being the creepy ass that I’m probably coming off as.

“You’re right,” I grumble and pick my head up from Iza’s lap, where they’re wearing a black pleated skirt and ripped stockings over a thrifted brown jacket. For the admission, I get another kiss from Iza’s lips, this time to the back of my hand. With their left hand that had been wrapped over my shoulders, Iza gave me a gentle nudge between my shoulders, even though by now, I’m already picking myself up to cross the street.

“Go say hi and we’ll be here for a while until Fire! Hot! Fire! gets set up,” Iza yells, blowing me a kiss before they start giggling while watching Jai and Tigist attempt to waltz.

Maybe Fate really doesn’t hate me (even after all the times I’ve backtalked her) that much, because it seems like perfect timing. Maybe-Medha, maybe-you is still leaning across the brick wall of The Underground in the alley with a cigarette in your hand and rummaging through the black clutch as if looking for a lighter. I’ve already crossed the street by then, rugged black combat boots carrying me every step of the way until I slow down while a foot away so you can see me coming closer.

Can you tell who I am to you?

You look up, long lashes fluttering out at me, thick under the weight of mascara, and speak before I’ve even made up my mind.

“Got a light?”

My mouth is dry and I really don’t want to open my mouth knowing that I’ll sound like a prepubescent 13 year old kid with a cracking voice so – I give you a light.

It’s an uninterestingly long story but I once did a favor for someone (being pulled from my ancestor’s form and understanding the wisdoms of the world because I’m a ‘god’ or something helps me with favors), and now I’ll never be without a lighter. I think about my favorite lighter – the one that I’ve had for at least a century – and that’s the one that my fingers conveniently (fatefully) find when I reach into my back pocket of these skin tight black jeans.

It’s my favorite lighter for a reason. It’s shiny silver and rectangular in shape. My thumb pushes against the top, which snaps the cartridge open so a small but strong flame pops up, shining a gradient of orange to red to blue. To my eyes, the engraved illustration of the skeleton over the side of the lighter begins dancing back and forth, swords rippling over the metal, mirroring the movements of the flame a few centimeters above. I hope you see the skeletons dancing too.

You lean over and light your cigarette (I’m glad you’ve stopped smoking Newports), the rings covering almost all your fingers sparkling under the one light bulb that shines down on us. I can’t help but be entranced by your new but familiar face (I’m so sure it’s you). I’d remember your eyes anywhere, anytime. I’m only momentarily distracted from them when I hear a low hissing and murmuring from above your eyes – the headwrap – and watch you turn to the side so the smoke leaving your mouth doesn’t billow into my face. I put the lighter in my back pocket and when you turn towards me again, the words that fall from your lips set another fire to my insides.

“You’re late, Neith.”

I’m grinning goofily now, I know it even without you smirking at me from a couple inches away, no doubt with my crooked teeth and gap-toothed smile, but I get the feeling I’m going to be smiling like this for a while with you around.

I just knew it was you.