Page 101 of Madam, May I
“Cool,” Trevor said with a warm smile.
She moved back over to her seat in the center of the parterre and dropped his card inside the leather interior of the bejeweled butterfly as she focused her intention on the music of Chopin now swelling in the air around her.
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
I’m done. Madam, may I . . . live my life?
“Does this make me a stalker?” Desdemona asked as she sat down on her sofa and handed Melissa a glass of her favorite wine.
Melissa tilted her head to the side. “Eh. A little,” she admitted with a shrug. “But I’m here with you. Your Samoan sister in stalking.”
“Oh. Samoan. Like the Rock. I’ve been wondering,” Desdemona admitted as she made the live stream play on her laptop in full screen.
Melissa frowned. “I should go to work and leave you stalking your ex alone.”
“He’s not my ex.”
“Your sex then,” she countered.
Desdemona remained quiet, but she was amused. That was commonplace in her friendship with the woman. She was brilliant and pretty and nice but above all funny with quick wit. She had no regrets welcoming the petite woman with the big sense of humor into her life.
And what will Trevor think of this?’ she asked.
“Considering we’re only dating, he should think nothing of it,” Desdemona said. “Ssssh. They’re calling them up for the hooding.”
Loren had successfully completed his doctorate in creative writing, and the university was livestreaming the convocation.
“How do you know about all of this?”
She side-eyed the other woman. “He posted about his graduation on Instagram and I looked up the info on the university’s website. I intended to go, but there were no tickets available.”
“That good, huh?” Melissa asked.
Desdemona arched a brow and nodded.
“Celibacy sucks,” she muttered into her glass.
“Six months? That’s a cakewalk. Tryfiveyears,” Desdemona stressed.
“Five?” she repeated. “Maybe he’s not that good and you were just that horny.”
“Perhaps,” Desdemona agreed, taking a sip of wine as she eyed Francis McAdams standing on stage next to the podium in his black robe and cap as the president of the university. He appeared happy. She was glad to see that. His night with the twins had been his last. They reported back how his grief that night had prevented much of anything from happening.
“We will now recognize candidates who have officially met the requirements for a doctorate in the creative writing program.”
They both fell silent and settled back against the sofa as each candidate was called up onto the stage of the Theatre at Madison Square Garden with the seated professors and deans, all dressed in their academic regalia of caps and gowns with their hood color or trim signaling their degree or discipline.
One by one each candidate walked across the stage, shook the hand of the university’s president, and then stopped before the dean of their school to be hooded and pose for a picture.
“We’ve been watching this for over an hour,” Desdemona said, touching her fingers to her lips. “Do you see how few doctoral candidates of color there are across all disciplines?”
“PhDs so white . . . and Asian.”
Desdemona offered her a weak smile. “No, seriously, I am so proud of him,” she whispered. “Ireallyam.”
Several more candidates crossed the stage.