Mitch had to stoop a little under the doorway; he was almost seven feet tall, and long limbed like a Watusi with Ethiopian eyes that arched like rainbows, and gold earrings in both ears, etched real fine because they were from Mexico (antiques). His nose was slightly hooked like Nasser’s, and his presence was that of one of those Olmec gods. Mitch thought of himself as a god, and he was always telling Sassafrass not to succumb to her mortality; to live like she was one of God’s stars.

That particular day Mitch was wearing his blue homespun shirt Sassafrass had made with laced cuffs, and an orange coral medallion and some copper corduroy pants that sat on his thighs like he was the hottest thing in town. But this time Mitch was serious and brusque when he spoke to Sassafrass, who was trying to push her crocheting under her skirts.

“Why aren’t you writing, girl? Do you think you gonna be some kind of writer sitting up here making me hats? I got so many damn hats I have to give some away, and you sittin’ here makin’ me another one. Well, if I didn’t know you were being so considerate because you don’t wanna deal with your writing, I’d say thanks, but you makin’ me stuff and hangin’ all this shit around the walls in every room so you won’t haveta write nothing today.”

Sassafrass was holding her lips so tight between her teeth she could barely stand the pain, and she was making moves to get up and away from Mitch’s harangue when he pushed her back on the bed.

“Look, Sassafrass, I just want you to be happy with yourself. You want to write and create new images for black folks, and you’re always sittin’ around making things with your hands. There’s nothing wrong with that, ’cept you’ve known how to do that all your damn life.” Mitch began to grow fierce again, and held Sassafrass briskly by the shoulder with one hand, bringing her chin and eyes straight to his gaze with the other. And Sassafrass couldn’t avoid the truth: the man she loved was not happy with her charade of homebodiness, because all this weaving and crocheting and macrameing she’d been doing all her life, and Sassafrass was supposed to be a writer. Mitch forcefully held her face close to his and continued.