Page 24 of Serenity
“Bitch…” She dragged the word, deadpanning first and then rolling her eyes.
“I know,” I spoke the words intending to ease my friend’s disdain. “But at least he admitted it. That’s more than half are willing to do.”
“Let me get you some aloe. These new niggas are sickening in the worse way. I’m nauseous, Reni.”
Colored, my thoughts lingered on the way my evening ended as opposed to how it began. The honey-tinted wonder with the deep waves reigned over the ego-bruised man I’d been out with on that night a week ago. Duke was nauseating. Sickeningly fine with that one. I’d succumb to his every demand and every whim. The epitome of him.
A single encounter with Duke had left me aching for his presence. His aura, his words, his scent, it impeded against my wisdom.
He’s too old, Serenity.
While eager to gush about the man who was twelve years my senior, words failed to surface.
At twenty-nine, I hadn’t yet reached the glorious fuck it and fuck y’all thirties. People’s opinions still affected me to some degree. Dream’s unwarranted opinion on our age difference was neither sought after nor required. She didn’t know about my night at Genevieve either. We were cool, but she wasn’t that type of friend. I decided to remain tight-lipped on the man I’d encountered at Genevieve and Sin.
“Like the minute they see you’re doing better than them, you become a threat. You become their competition.”
“Make it make sense,” I goaded.
“Heaux, I can’t. These new niggas are trying to take our place as the new women.”
“Where the niggas from the 1999 at?”
“Girl probably married or pretending not to be,” she tittered. “Your kitty is pretty, though. Go ahead and get yourself together. You can tap to pay on the iPad once you’re done.”
Dream left the room, granting me privacy to get dressed. No longer horizontal and off the table, I stood in the mirror staring at the freshly waxed vulva that was my kitty.
She was pretty.
There it was. That insanity which brought me to Dream’s place of business month after month. A pretty, bald pussy.
Months of daily self-care and weekly exfoliation kept her flawless and void of ingrown hair. A gentle retinol serum kept hyperpigmentation away. She wasn’t pretty. My pussy was stunning.
Freeing the lifted hem of the shift dress I’d worn for comfort, I double-checked my reflection, nodding in approval for what I saw. Panties were tucked in my purse, but with pinprick bleeding after waxing, I dreaded sliding them on. They’d stick to my hypersensitive flesh. Locating them in the cubby with my belongings, I gathered my purse and left Dream Esthetics feeling like a brand-new woman.
Next on my list of destinations was Vivid. The gallery, managed and curated by Misty Evans, wasn’t a far drive from my current location.
Vivid was home to four artists in residence. High ceilings and few windows composed the setting. The massive open-concept space was adorned with a few signature pieces on white walls. Misty, speaking with who appeared to be an artist seeking gallery representation, waved as I entered but continued her conversation with a stiff smile.
Four-foot abstract drawings of the female figure done in charcoal and ink encouraged patrons to explore further inside the gallery. The first floor was currently scattered with fourteen pieces from the collection of one of our contract artists. Six of those drawings had already sold and would be shipped out soon. Our second floor housed yet another level of art, and the third floor was home and studio to our resident artists.
Where the spa gave me tranquility and healing, Vivid gave me variety and fun. I sat down at my desk, powered on my computer, and relaxed in the plush high-back seat. Misty appeared in the doorway of our shared office, audibly freeing a breath of unrest.
“Another prospect?”
Falling into her seat, she rolled her eyes. I watched as she powered on a lavender-scented oil diffuser, which immediately began to fill the air with the fragrance.
“I respond to every email and give full disclosure every time, but they still make their way up here to be let down in person. What part of ‘we’re not accepting new artists’ is difficult to understand?”
“The ‘not,’” I tittered.
Together, Misty and I worked on curating an upcoming show for one of our residents. We took few breaks, stopping only for lunch before returning to our mission. Once the task was complete, we moved on to planning for the charity auction in late October. Preferable attendees included those with deep pockets. The fatter the wallet, the bigger the donation.
“Everything good as far as the guest list?” Misty asked, noting my scrutiny of the file.
Giving the guest list one last look, I noted the absence of a particular oil baron.
“Add Duke Stepford to the list.”