fell. The musicians stopped, protecting their instruments with their shirts.
When I stopped dancing, a couple of the onlookers complimented me as they dispersed. I took my time walking to my car, not
caring that my hair would soon frizz up.
“You made it rain,
Negrita!
” the conga player yelled, running past me, his shoulder-length braids slapping his face.
I smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had called me Negrita, a term of endearment my mother used for me because I
was the darkest in the family. For one brief moment, I felt liberated, free from the mundane worries in my everyday life:
work, irrational thoughts, men. In my car, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest, listening to the rain slapping
the car’s exterior like a car wash.
A tapping at the window startled me and I looked up to find the conga player grinning at me as the rain drenched him. Cautiously,
I manually cracked the car window.
“You wanna go dancin’?” he asked in a thick Chicago accent that reminded me of the first Mayor Daley.
His question caught me completely off guard, and I was temporarily speechless. I looked at his wet, goateed face, at the beads
of rain clumping his eyelashes, then down at his bare tattooed torso, reed-thin without an ounce of body fat. Raindrops were
splashing through the crack and hitting my face. Five years ago, the old Eva would have taken him up on his offer. Five years
ago, I would not have given the consequences of my actions a second thought. The new Eva knew dancing was the last thing on
his mind. And the new Eva blamed me for encouraging him with my dance moves.
“I’m Christian,” I replied, hoping to scare him away.
“Yo tambien,”
he said, lifting the gold crucifix from his neck toward me.
“Estoy casada,”
I told him, using my old lie that I was married to keep unwanted men away.
He held up his left hand to show me a ring and grinned. “Hey, me too.”
“Go home to your wife,” I told him disgustedly, and rolled up the window.
He pretended to look dejected, holding his hands together in a begging gesture, the grin never leaving his face. I started
the car and backed out of the parking space, glancing in the rearview mirror as he ran toward a waiting van.
There were some days when I felt I could wait for a man of God as long as He wanted me to wait. I would remember my mother’s
favorite proverb:
Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it,
and back off in fear of what might come my way. I would tell myself I didn’t necessarily need a man to complete my life,
just to complement it. Because marriage wasn’t something I was ready to commit to again, and because I had no intentions of
becoming intimate without marriage, my predicament was even more complicated. I had yet to date a man who hadn’t eventually
expected sex as part of the package.
There were other days when I could keep my craving at bay by imagining the worst that marriage had to offer—the never-ending
housework, the disproportionate compromising, usually on the part of the woman, the whole patriarchal institution of it all.
In the end, I would resolve that I was better off single.
But then, there were the days when the emptiness in me was so intense, the pain so acute, it cut like a razor blade and all
I wanted to do was cry. I would feel the need to pray continuously and intensely, attending every service at TCCC until I
felt rejuvenated by His awesome presence. I would think,
Okay, Lord, if you command me to wait some more, then Thy will be done.
I would be invigorated for the next few days, enough to get me through the nights, a week. But then, my spirit, which was
very willing, was overwhelmed by my weakened and fervent flesh.
And I could feel myself growing weaker every day.
CHAPTER 4
ADAM
IT WAS FRIDAY and I had been thanking God literally from the moment I woke up that morning. Most days I loved my job, but
sometimes when I saw kid after
When I stopped dancing, a couple of the onlookers complimented me as they dispersed. I took my time walking to my car, not
caring that my hair would soon frizz up.
“You made it rain,
Negrita!
” the conga player yelled, running past me, his shoulder-length braids slapping his face.
I smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had called me Negrita, a term of endearment my mother used for me because I
was the darkest in the family. For one brief moment, I felt liberated, free from the mundane worries in my everyday life:
work, irrational thoughts, men. In my car, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest, listening to the rain slapping
the car’s exterior like a car wash.
A tapping at the window startled me and I looked up to find the conga player grinning at me as the rain drenched him. Cautiously,
I manually cracked the car window.
“You wanna go dancin’?” he asked in a thick Chicago accent that reminded me of the first Mayor Daley.
His question caught me completely off guard, and I was temporarily speechless. I looked at his wet, goateed face, at the beads
of rain clumping his eyelashes, then down at his bare tattooed torso, reed-thin without an ounce of body fat. Raindrops were
splashing through the crack and hitting my face. Five years ago, the old Eva would have taken him up on his offer. Five years
ago, I would not have given the consequences of my actions a second thought. The new Eva knew dancing was the last thing on
his mind. And the new Eva blamed me for encouraging him with my dance moves.
“I’m Christian,” I replied, hoping to scare him away.
“Yo tambien,”
he said, lifting the gold crucifix from his neck toward me.
“Estoy casada,”
I told him, using my old lie that I was married to keep unwanted men away.
He held up his left hand to show me a ring and grinned. “Hey, me too.”
“Go home to your wife,” I told him disgustedly, and rolled up the window.
He pretended to look dejected, holding his hands together in a begging gesture, the grin never leaving his face. I started
the car and backed out of the parking space, glancing in the rearview mirror as he ran toward a waiting van.
There were some days when I felt I could wait for a man of God as long as He wanted me to wait. I would remember my mother’s
favorite proverb:
Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it,
and back off in fear of what might come my way. I would tell myself I didn’t necessarily need a man to complete my life,
just to complement it. Because marriage wasn’t something I was ready to commit to again, and because I had no intentions of
becoming intimate without marriage, my predicament was even more complicated. I had yet to date a man who hadn’t eventually
expected sex as part of the package.
There were other days when I could keep my craving at bay by imagining the worst that marriage had to offer—the never-ending
housework, the disproportionate compromising, usually on the part of the woman, the whole patriarchal institution of it all.
In the end, I would resolve that I was better off single.
But then, there were the days when the emptiness in me was so intense, the pain so acute, it cut like a razor blade and all
I wanted to do was cry. I would feel the need to pray continuously and intensely, attending every service at TCCC until I
felt rejuvenated by His awesome presence. I would think,
Okay, Lord, if you command me to wait some more, then Thy will be done.
I would be invigorated for the next few days, enough to get me through the nights, a week. But then, my spirit, which was
very willing, was overwhelmed by my weakened and fervent flesh.
And I could feel myself growing weaker every day.
CHAPTER 4
ADAM
IT WAS FRIDAY and I had been thanking God literally from the moment I woke up that morning. Most days I loved my job, but
sometimes when I saw kid after
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