A RHETORICAL QUESTION – Part 3, Section 2

“Who?” I bawled on the floor in the fetal position, covering my head with my hands.

“Rhetoric! You’re sleeping with him aren’t you?” he screams as he grabs me and tries to violently shake out a confession.

“I heard your love poem to him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not love. I heard you two from outside.” He screamed.

I felt the color drain from my face. I knew the words of that poem, and I knew what Craig must have thought when he heard it as we rehearsed it aloud, our voices blending like colors on a canvas.

“It’s just a poem, I didn’t sleep with him.”

After several hard slaps, his fat mahogany hands found their way around my neck, squeezing tightly. As I fought for air, I desperately reached my hand around the floor and found the leg of a metal fold out chair. I swung it over and hit him on the head with it. Momentarily stunned, he let go long enough for me to get up and run away.  Holding on to my bleeding face, I ran down three flights of steps, past the well-manicured lawn, and out to my car.

Realizing the keys were in the apartment, I simply sat down on the asphalt and started crying.  I remained crouched between two cars hoping for Craig to leave my apartment, but he just stayed there waiting for me to confess my supposed infidelity with Rhetoric. He stayed there because he knew I wouldn’t call the police. My pride wouldn’t let me do it.

Just after 2am, I found the courage to peek out from behind my hiding spot, and saw Rhetoric casually walking down the street returning from a party. I called out as he passed by the lot. He walked across the street, bent over and tenderly picked me up off the ground, gently wiping the blood off my swollen cheeks.

“Craig did this, didn’t he?”

I couldn’t answer because I was so embarrassed and scared. All I could do was cry uncontrollably.  He dropped his duffel bag to the ground by my feet.

“You stay out here. Don’t do anything until I come for you.” As he ran inside the complex, I stood outside as the wind stung my face, and waited for what seemed like an eternity, terrified of what was going on inside.

He returned with his face bloody and his shirt torn, but he walked confidently towards me grabbing his bag.

“You ain’t gotta worry about that loser anymore.” He took my hand and walked me back to my trashed apartment. My bed is flipped over, mirrors broken, and the contents of my drawers strewn about. Rhetoric turned over my bed then sat down beside me and begins to sooth my swollen face of blood and tears….his hands caressing my face, slowly rubbing my neck and my shoulders. My hands traveled underneath his shirt lightly touching his back and I kissed him. He stopped kissing me, butted his forehead up against mine, and stared deeply into my eyes.

“Not now, Woman. When its right, it will happen, just not in this way and not now,” Rhetoric whispers. He laid me down, and held me close to his warm muscular body, as his tender reassurances helped me to sleep.

I transferred schools shortly after that.

Rhetoric helped me pack my room into boxes. He hauled out the bookcases, fridge, television, couch, and bed into a U-Haul truck until there was nothing left. We stood in the empty apartment, looking over the vacant space before I locked the door for the last time.

We stood in front of the truck, silent, not knowing how to say good-bye. I turned around, stood on my toes and gave Rhetoric a long hug, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Don’t go ghost on me.” Rhetoric quickly kissed me on the side of the head.

“I won’t. I’ll only be two hours away. I will send you my address and everything.”

Rhetoric nodded his head.

“Take care of yourself.” He said and walked me over to the truck door. As I started the truck he repeated his commitment to me, “If you ever need anything Woman, call me.”

“I will,” I answered adding, “We’ll see each other again someday, I promise.”

I got in the truck and closed the door behind me, then drove away.  I knew I’d never see Craig again, but I had no idea just how long my promise to Rhetoric would take to be fulfilled.

Weeks after I had moved into my new place, I looked down to see my cell phone glowing. New text message. I smiled at the name on the screen. Rhetoric.

No matter what you do, you will tell your story, be it writing, painting, creating- whatever, Woman. People will learn an artist’s story from their art, there is no need to explain it. Just as I have learned you and you have learned me. That’s what art is about. Your eyes are open now, so you have an obligation.