We always felt halfway to a crime that we could never commit.
We were two people of color, the passive transgression, but the responsibility of leaving our races still clung onto our chests.
Our portrait was perfectly hung and constantly dusted for shine.
But whenever he would call, I would let my phone ring until the screen went black. ” “Soon,“ I would say, as though there was more urgency in believing it to be true.
We were open with each other; he had been warned to stay away from black girls, and I was advised to not date men of color.
I had stopped knowing who to count out at parties or open bars, and so I winged it.
I found myself on a first date with a guy who was born and raised in Yonkers, with a family from El Salvador.
I didn’t date for two years following that breakup.
I cleaned myself up: I got a well-paying job; moved to the city; got my own apartment and painted it yellow and got plants to place on the windowsill. I joined Tinder on a whim to break the routine of eat, work, eat, sleep.