Page 51 of Tito

Tito

When I went to the mall the first time, I was drowning. Grasping for anything that would allow me to break the water’s surface and draw a breath, I asked Reggie on a date. My hope was that her presence would allow me to forget my loss.

Now on the heels of our second date, I feared that Reggie was what I’d been hoping to find but feared didn’t exist.

A woman who was intellectual and intelligent, without allowing either attribute define her.

Throughout my life, I had searched for anyone who was able to garner my attention with their intelligence, hoping they’d follow with intellectual banter. To date, many had proven to be intelligent. A few were intellectual.

None were both.

I stood just inside Reggie’s door, feeling somewhat out of place. A normal man would undoubtedly already have his boots unlaced and be reaching for his belt. I, on the other hand, felt the need to determine just who Reggie was before I did anything. Knowing would allow me to decide which path I wanted to take.

I scanned the sparsely decorated living room and then looked at Reggie. “This might sound weird or out-of-place, but can we talk for a minute?”

An exhaustive sigh escaped her. Her shoulders slumped. “Not again...”

“Just for a few minutes,” I said apologetically.

“Fine.” She glanced around the empty living room, and then waved her hand toward the breakfast table at the edge of her kitchen. “We can talk in there.”

With some reluctance, I did as she asked. It wasn’t easy, nor was it natural. I ached to touch her, to kiss her, and to explore her, sexually. Before I did anything, I needed to know if I was allowing myself to attach my heart to what remained of our evening or set it aside for safekeeping.

I sat down at the small table and she took a seat across from me.

She let out a long, exhaustive sigh and looked up. Her face wore a look of frustration. “What do you we need to talk about?”

“We don’t need to talk about anything. I want your opinion about something.”

Her interest seemed piqued. “My opinion?”

“Yes.”

“About?”

I pushed myself away from the table. “The hippie movement of the 1960’s.”

Her brows raised in disbelief. “You want to talk about the 1960’s hippie movement?” she bellowed. “Are you serious right now?”

“If you must know.” I lifted my right boot and rested it on my left knee. “I know you’re intelligent. I want to determine if you’re intellectual.”

She huffed out a sigh. “And you want to do this now?”

“Where we go from here hinges on my findings.”

“You’re attracted to someone who is both intelligent and intellectual?”

“Correct.”

Wearing a smug look, she cleared her throat. “A generation of people whose parents were preoccupied with material objects decided those things didn’t matter—their manner of living life did. Women were sick and tired of being seen and not heard, blacks wanted to put an end to racial discrimination, and everyone began to question authority. Artists, authors, musicians, filmmakers—you name it—they all stood up and said…” She stood from her seat and pointed her index finger at me. “I’m going to do this my way, and I’m not going to allow you to censor me any longer. People listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones while looking at Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art, not knowing that it would influence comic books fifty years in the future. Andy Warhol got high and gave away art that no one understood but would later be worth tens of millions. Freedom of speech and freedom of assembly were exercised and met by opposition. People gave their lives for what they believed in, and the world’s eyes opened. The people demanded—and obtained—change.”

“Personally, I think it was a bunch of bullshit,” I said, straight-faced.

“Bullshit?” The veins on her neck pulsed in opposition to my remark. Her look hardened. “Are you a racist?”

“No.”

She gave me a side-eyed look. “A misogynist?”