NICENESS
(for the girl in the next block)
There was a time when beauty was so beautiful. Those moments before the rose wilts, the flame turns to an ember, when you smiled because you could see that I was happy to see you and that made you happy. We were going somewhere. Winston and his girl were in the front seat driving, you and I were in the back, hanging on to each other like a delicious cookie in the hands of a two year old. Both of us were newly past the age of majority, able to go anywhere, do whatever, and at that moment the “whatever” was your hand lightly on my knee, and, to my great delight, palm pressed lightly on the inside of my left thigh, that same hand that was now making haste very slowly up the arc my legs, which I opened slightly to make room for your fingers.
The night was no longer young. We had been dancing and drinking, and neither one of us was ready to let the other go, and rather than romantically kiss me you leaned back, your right cheek resting on my chest just below my goateed chin, then you sighed contentedly and simply said: it’s a nice night.
I knew what you meant. I hadn’t kissed you yet but it was nice—I don’t often use that square word to describe the sublime but within the confines of the car that warm night, the windows down, the darkness of our breathing synchronizing like birds and bees, “nice” was a just right way to describe what we felt for each other. We was nice. I hadn’t much even touched your breast or anything, but there was a knowing in our closeness, and more than closeness there was a palpable intimacy hovering over us even though we were not alone in this car speeding through the night. Everything was niceness.
—kalamu ya salaam