“The name’s Rhetoric. Just like my name, I always want to make sure what I spit follows the art of argumentation and discourse. On the flip side, rhetoric is also the art of speaking utter nonsense intelligently. So there it is, sometimes I’m an art form, sometimes I’m nonsense, depends on the day.” As he spoke I found myself watching his lips, underlined by an untamed beard, the center of which hanging at least an inch longer than the rest.
I cracked out a barely audible version of my name followed by, “No explanation.” I held out my hand and he shook it.
“I know your name. But I’m going to call you Woman, because that’s what you are in my eyes.” He smiled and slowly strolled out of view. I was breathless.
The next day I went to the campus library. I scanned the last names, Angell, Angellotti, Angelou then pulled out a book.
“I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, that’s a great read.”Startled, I looked up to find the poet looking over my shoulder. He had his sinister smile set on me, his eyes making me feel uncomfortable. I diverted my eyes to a small table in the back of the library letting my eyes rest on the dark wooden furniture and the sage colored carpet.
“I’d thought you more of a Terry McMillian type.” He said taking the book from me and fanning through the pages.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked taking the book back from him.
“Nothing, just saw you as modern.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I began to walk away from him with the book underneath my arm. I took out my library card handing it to the receptionist.
“Two weeks.” She said handing the book back to me. I nodded and started out the door. The poet followed.
“Are you following me?”
“Would you like me to?” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. I felt myself blush.
“No, I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Then there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” His eyes looked at me for a long time. I broke myself away from his gaze and started towards the cafeteria. He stayed in stride.
“I’m not trying to get in your way Woman. I just want to talk to you about your poem last night.” I slowed down.
“What about it?”
“It was cold, the verbal equivalent of stabbing someone between the ribs. Like the part when you said- he feels tears are a sign of weakness, although he is the cause of them. Ouch, I mean have you dated me and I didn’t know about it?” He started laughing and I joined him. We sat down and ate lunch talking about our literary and visual influences.
The first time he came to my apartment it was near the end of October. The air was crisp and the leaves were russet colored.
“Look at this apartment. It’s like a 1970s Jamaican resort.” He took a red-eyed look around my living room, the citrus green curtains, the melon colored chaise and the bamboo and rattan furniture. “I like this place, it says a lot about you.” He walked into the room throwing his duffel bag to the ground and looking at my bookcase.
“Did you read all these?” He asked taking some books off the shelf and fanning through.
“Yes.”
“Quite an eclectic mix of stuff, most people just buy books that look cool and pose like they read.” He walked away from the bookcase and sat down on the floor, and then he began searching his pocket for his blunt. Finding it he placed it over his ear like a pencil and laid out on my coffee and crème colored zebra rug. I sat at my window sill looking at him lying there. I examined his unkempt facial hair imagining how handsome he’d be if he shaped it up.
“I bet everything I need to know about you is in this apartment.” He continued looking around from his spot on the floor.
“Hey, where’s your music?” I pointed to my cabinet and he suddenly hopped up and took a cursory look at the CDs and closed the door. “Yep, everything I need to know.”
I gave him a questioning look from my perch on the windowsill.
About section 3? When is that happening?!
Everyday a little will be released until the finale on Oct 11th.