Melina sat nervously in the car across the street from Justin’s parking lot. Despite several innocent email exchanges and a couple of pleasant enough telephone conversations with Boyd—and wondering on more than one occasion how many black mommas and daddies named their sons Boyd—she did not have a good feeling about this date. There was not anything specific that she could put her finger on, but something was lurking in the back of her mind, and that feeling was becoming more potent with each passing minute.
She watched the steady stream of cars trailing in and out of the restaurant’s parking lot. Justin’s, owned by Sean Puff Daddy Combs—or P. Diddy, Diddy, Zippadeedoodiddy or whatever the hell he was calling himself these days—catered to an upscale, eclectic, bourgeois and bourgeois-wannabe clientele in the heart of trendy Buckhead. It was the place to not only see and be seen, but it was hardly surprising anymore to see celebrities and high rollers sipping on a cocktail or indulging in a plate of savory soul food while basking in the elegant atmosphere. Melina had never dined at the restaurant, but she had heard from more than a few sources that, while the food was decent, it was a bit overpriced, and the poor service left very little to be desired. Still, Boyd insisted that they meet there and assured her they would have a simply divine time—his words, not hers. What straight black man in his right mind even dared utter the phrase simply divine?
After suffering through a small anxiety attack that lasted all of seven minutes, Melina pulled herself together, drove across the street to the parking lot, plucked the ticket from the valet’s hand as she climbed out of the car and made her way to the door. Her first instinct was to make a Gail Devers-style sprint for the nearest bar to order a stiff gin and tonic—hold the tonic—but common sense told her to be on her best behavior and stay put. She snuck a peek at her reflection in the mirror. Notwithstanding the grip of fear that held fast to her tightly, Melina looked damn good. She wore a dressy pair of flattering Baby Phat jeans that hugged her butt like Kimora had custom designed them just for her, a brown fitted shell that was cut low enough to intrigue but not low enough to be mistaken as an open invitation, and a fitted brown jacket with gold accent buttons and wide cuffs. The restaurant was exceptionally loud, and she never heard the hostesses emotionless “Welcome to Justin’s. How may I help you?” aimed in her direction.
Melina scanned the crowd for a few moments before her eyes came to rest on a vaguely familiar face. Boyd Thompson, looking somewhat but not quite like his picture, was seated in the lounge area wearing a bright read leather jacket that was far louder than any crowd could hope to be. Melina groaned. Great, all he needs now is a jheri curl and he’s set, she thought morosely. She was about to turn on her heels and quietly leave when Boyd spotted her, grinned like he had gotten away with something that he shouldn’t have and waved like he was the grand marshal in the Macy’s Day Parade. Melina chastised herself. Why the hell did I tell this man what I would be wearing so he could pluck me out of the crowd? She smiled weakly but refused to wave. Still, it was all the invitation he needed.
“Melina,” he asked hopefully as he pimped-strutted over to her and extended his hand to her. Melina looked down, saw the long ass fingernail on his pinky, and groaned under her breath.
“You must be Boyd,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, which was not much.
His smile widened. “Damn, you look good enough to eat!” he exclaimed. The cloud that hardened the edges of Melina’s face was enough for him to realize he that could have very well kept that lame comment to himself. In full recovery mode, he switched tactics and miraculously morphed into ‘Genteel Man, able to toss out respectful words in a single sentence.’ “My apologies. That was rude of me. You look really nice this evening.”
The two made small talk while they waited for their reserved table. Forty-five minutes and at least half a dozen boring Boyd stories later, they were seated in the middle of the room. Melina felt like she was on serious blast. Everybody and their momma can see me sitting here with this fool. Boyd took it upon himself to take the lead and ordered the catfish fritters as the appetizer and a Jack and coke. He never bothered to ask Melina what she wanted. She frowned. When the waiter returned with the fritters, Melina asked for a glass of Voigner, then changed her mind and requested something with a bit more kick—scotch on the rocks. As the waiter was leaving, Boyd dived into the plate fingers first.
“So, tell me Melina,” he said while licking his fingers like he was eating a plate of Kentucky Fried Chicken, “what do you think about me so far?”
Talk about a loaded question. And he had just handed Melina the 9mm semi-automatic pistol with 12-shot clip equipped with a silencer and laser site to do the hit.
Without missing a beat, Melina kept her composure, but was careful not to even the slightest glimmer of false hope. “Well, since we just met, I don’t think that’s a question I can answer right now. But since I’m still sitting here, things can’t be too bad.” Boyd was not sure what to make of that, so he shrugged his shoulders and continued to devour the food in front of him. Melina was afraid to reach for one of the catfish fritters with her fork for fear of getting her fingers chewed off at the knuckles. Instead, she placed a roll on her plate, smeared butter on it and waited patiently for her drink to arrive. Perhaps it would be the liquid courage that she needed.
When the waiter finally came back to take their entrée orders, Melina ordered the red snapper with fresh corn and collard greens, while Boyd ordered the steak with mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach. “Surf and turf,” he said happily. He was already anticipating a bite or two of Melina’s meal.
Throughout the course of the meal, Genteel Man all but disappeared and was replaced by
By ten-thirty, Melina had had quite enough. Despite her well-mannered upbringing, and the decent values her parents had instilled deep within her, and in spite of her mother’s daily admonition to ‘Always treat others as you would want to be treated,’ Melina Rose Carson said a polite “I’ll be back in just a minute. I need to run to the ladies room” and excused herself from the table. Three minutes later, she had tipped the valet, climbed in her car, and peeled out of the parking lot with a screech in her tires and a smile on her face.