Here I was, alone, in the apartment of some strange dude I had only seen a couple of times. Grandma would have said I didn’t have a fool’s sense. I told myself that I was taking a chance, having an adventure, broadening my horizons, “stepping out on faith” as the preacher would have said at Grandma’s church. But I thought back to the feeling he had given me the very first time I saw him. It had been like a bubble bursting, a wave crashing into me, or even the shock of that first raindrop falling on my forehead when a storm was coming. It had felt good, in a way that had nothing to do with sex like it did with Leroy. I knew I had nothing to be afraid of.

Rasul’s apartment was the same style as mine. Large living room, small kitchen, tiny bathroom, and two bedrooms arranged in an L-shape. But this one was hooked up. There was a three-piece velvet living-room set and nice dark wood breakfront to match. Tall speakers stood in the corners of the living room, and an entertainment center held a thirty-six-inch television and serious stereo with a record player on top. What seemed like a thousand albums were encased behind glass at the bottom of the entertainment center. Strange art decorated all four walls—real painted pictures, not Jew Town posters in cheap gold-tone frames. The raised paint scratched when I ran my fingers along the colorful shapes. Pouch-faced African masks were all over the walls, and their few family photos were all in wooden frames. An older couple with gray hair smiled in one eight-by-ten picture as they held on to each other. They were both dressed nicely, in dark suits. The woman even had a red flower on her lapel. Candles were burning and the air felt calm.

“This your place?” I asked, astonished that someone so young could afford all this. I wasn’t trying to get hooked up with another pusher.

“Yep,” he grinned. Then after my eyes got wider and my mouth opened, he confessed.

“Naw girl,” he finally said. “This ain’t mine. I live here with my uncle and his wife.”

“Oh. I was ’bout to say …”

“’Bout to say what?” He playfully slapped my shoulder.

“I was ’bout to say you slanging and I’m not into that.”

“Naw … that ain’t me. I just go to school and come home.”

He hadn’t invited me to sit down yet, but I did anyway. My feet hurt and I suddenly realized how much I ached. My arms, my feet, and the fronts of my thighs were all pulsing with a dull pain. I wished I could soak in a hot bath with Epsom salts and menthol alcohol, but I wasn’t trying to get naked with some brand-new Negro fantasizing outside the bathroom door.