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“What is this?” I’m holding my left hand up between us like it’s Exhibit A.
Sasha’s just standing in the doorway. Black T-shirt. Gray sweats. Coffee in his hand. Hair still wet from a shower he took somewhere I wasn’t, ‘cause apparently this house got more than one. He looks at the ring. Then at me. Calm as that fog outside. And he takes a sip.
A sip.
“Your ring.”
“I see it’s a ring, Sasha!”
I’m in nothing but his T-shirt, hanging off one shoulder. My braids are a whole mess. And I’ve been standing at this window for twenty minutes staring at a diamond the size of a Skittle, sitting on my finger like it pays rent.
I woke up and it was just on me. Like a tag on a dog.
I rolled over and something heavy hit me in the face, and I thought it was a bug. I almost slapped myself. Then I looked. Big. Oval. Sparkly as hell. Catching all that gray light off the ocean and throwing little rainbows all over his ceiling like a disco ball.
I screamed. A whole horror-movie scream. And nobody came. Not him. Not the housekeeper. Nobody. In this house, a woman can scream bloody murder at seven in the morning and folks just keep making coffee.
“What is it doing on my finger?”
“Sitting there.”
“You put it on me while I was sleeping!”
“Yes.”
“Again with the sleeping!”
“You sleep hard.”
“That is not a reason to do things to people!”
He walks in and sets his coffee on the dresser. And Lord, I hate my body. ‘Cause I’m mad. I’m so mad. And I’m still watching him. Barefoot. His sweats hanging low on his hips. That T-shirt stretched across his chest so tight I can see every muscle under it, and the ink crawling out the collar and down his forearms. And his hands. His big, scarred, tattooed hands that put this ring on me while I was knocked out.
My nipples go hard. Right there. In the middle of me being mad.
Traitors.
I grab the ring and pull.
It don’t move.
I pull harder. I twist it. I lick my finger like I’m trying to get a too-small bangle off at the mall. It’s stuck on my knuckle like it grew there.
“Why won’t it come off?”
“I had it made small.”
I stop. I look up at him.
“You had it made small.” I say it slow, ‘cause I need to hear it twice. “On purpose. So it won’t come off.”
“Yes.”
“That is…” I open my mouth. Close it. “That’s the craziest thing you ever did, and you broke into my apartment in a mask.”
He doesn’t argue. He just starts walking toward me.
So I back up. And my ass hits the glass. Same as always. I don’t know why I keep backing up. There’s always glass.
