"Sexy drumbeats at midnight
Ya fingers touching me light
Like
Sunrays on earth at sunrise
Your love shines in your eyes…"
Maxxee loved that song! Its beat seduced her memory, making her want to dance. She clenched her legs, eyeing the dark underground. She thought of the stranger’s eyes. Green dish bowls laden with curiosity. He wore a wedding ring. "Shit! I don’t believe in love at first sight anyway." Maxxee spied an old woman sitting across the car, watching her. "She knows what I feel. She’s staring at me, smiling. What’s funny? He’s married."
"Kirse’d be pissed if she knew what I was thinking. I can’t help it. She’s drawing me to her. She’s spinning a web around me. Her eyes are squeezing my throat, stealing my breath. I’ve never been attracted to a Black woman. This is new! Intense! I wonder if she’s ever been with a white guy. She’s nothing like Kirsten. My wife’s slim, great boobs, blond, leggy. Hell, everybody at the job wants to do Kirse. Yet here I am on a moving train, scoping a Black woman! For Pete’s sake, I’m on fire down here. Her eyes are so dark, so warm, moving over me like blind hands. I’m going closer…"
The train rumbled in the darkness. Bouncing roughly, it careened away from the bowels of the 
metropolis, carrying the city’s run-off from the lavish excess. Some foreigner remarked that it’s only peons that ride the subway in New York. The person standing next to you could be a millionaire. The subway disguises. It covers, hiding identity like a public war fought for independence cloaks private greed. The noise of the trains drowns out the cries against conformity. Once inside the machine, everyone is equal.
"He’s moving closer! Is he crazy?" Pause. Breathless. Fear. Hope. "Damn, he could be a serial killer or some shit like that." Maxxee moistened her lips, pressed them together, parted them slow. Her right eyebrow arched slightly. It always did when she became disconcerted, or aroused. Her eyes never left his as he closed the space between them. He finally stood in front of her, looking down.
Maxxee coolly glanced around, searching for rescue from this dilemma. There were people everywhere. In every seat someone laughed, read, slept. No one seemed to care that the white man crept closer. No one noticed except that strange smiling old lady. She never looked away. She just sat there staring intensely at Maxxee and the man, gripping her oversized purse. Maxxee pressed her hands deep into her lap. A small moan escaped her as she touched the bottom of the seat. She didn’t realize that as she moaned, her eyes were on his face.
Dillon exhaled, pushed her sack towards her, and sat down. His gaze never left her. "I’m married," he whispered.
Maxxee could only stare. She’d become a top, spinning and weaving. She felt free. A caught butterfly, released. Her spirit recognized him. "What?" she asked softly.
Dillon could see she was mystified. It didn’t occur to him that she could be afraid of him. No, he was too busy inhaling her scent. He was too occupied with her visual landscape, scenery so divine she must have been on earth by accident. "I said I’m married."
Dillon lifted his index finger and traced her eyebrows. He lingered over her right eye. Maxxee didn’t blink. She sat perfectly still as his finger arched from nose to cheek.
"Have we met before?" Dillon questioned, his hand now cruising through his own wheaty curls. "Déjà vu."
Maxxee found her breath. "Yes, déjà vu. You’re so familiar, and yet, it’s not possible." She reconsidered. "Well, anything’s possible, but…"
"It’s not possible for you to feel what you’re feeling, right? Not for a white boy like me?"
"Not for a white boy. It never crossed my mind. I stick to the brothers."
"Why? You don’t think my love is as good?"
"Don’t you? You married to a woman like me? Or are you hitched to ‘Barbie’?"
"Barbie." Flat. Dillon wondered at the lack of dimension in his response. Yes, Kirse was Barbie, and he was her Ken.
Maxxee watched his eyes narrow and cloud. She knew what he was thinking. Somehow, she was inside him, feeling his confusion, his love for his wife, and this incredible emptiness. "Why do you have this great chasm in you?" Maxxee put her hand on his, palm to skin. Her eyes searched his. "You have it all. You love your wife, house, job. You love your body, making love to your wife. Why the emptiness?"
Dillon mouth unhinged. How did she know? How did she know things about him? His sea glass eyes scanned the train. No one else seemed interested in their interaction, unusual for the subway. Wait. One person was watching, an odd-looking old lady with a bag two sizes bigger than her body. That’s not an uncommon subway sighting, but there was something unusual about her.
She had piercing grey eyes that did not waver. She looked like one of those old New Orleans quadroons in the family heirloom books he kept at home. She had black ringlet hair that escaped the tight cell of her red scarf. For some reason, he had to see her feet.
He aimed his view towards the floor. She wore the most horrific old shoes. They were soiled with mud, and pieces of rubber protruded from the soles. Dillon thought, "She’s been walking for a long time." Suddenly, he understood what he must do.
Maxxee observed the old woman, too. She and Dillon’s gazes joined forces in the inspection of the woman. Simultaneously, they saw her shoes. Then their eyes broke apart. Maxxee turned towards Dillon, pregnant with expectation.
Dillon caught her breath with his lips, firm yet soft. His tongue explored her depths, and she tasted him in a kiss. Nothing moved, no noise sounded. All that existed was the inhale exhale of time.
Maxxee allowed herself to submit. Dillon kissed her like she hadn’t been kissed in three lifetimes. She could feel Dillon pouring himself into her. She could feel pieces of herself entering him. They never closed their eyes.
Hands rested on their shoulders. The old woman was right behind them, grinning. Her eyes resembled molten slate, thunder with lightening highlights. Her lips never moved, but Maxxee and Dillon heard her speak. A slow Southern drawl commanded them to make love, demanded that love receive its due.
"Here on the train? What about these people?" Dillon looked around. Everyone was laughing, talking, reading.
Maxxee shook her head. She couldn’t have sex with this white man. She was not that type of woman. Who was this ancient hag?
The old woman spit lightly on her fingers. Reaching over to Dillon, she put those spitted fingers at the base of his throat, tracing a line from his chest to his navel. Dillon, first shocked, completely relaxed. He looked at her as if he were seeing her all over again. He reached for Maxxee, grasping her. In one swing he positioned her on his lap. She was nude. She started to scream. The old lady touched spitted fingers to Maxxee’s belly, just below her navel. Maxxee released herself. She wanted this.
They loved forcefully. Oblivious to the other passengers, they made love viciously, two souls long separated, reunited. Dillon entered Maxxee, felt himself grow and lift. He trembled as his empty caverns flooded with her warmth.
Maxxee clung to Dillon, moving with him, feeling no strain of the motion. She felt full of him and his need for her. She had never felt this needed. How delicious! Her head thrown back, Maxxee let Dillon ease her loneliness. She let him open the door to her spring. She wanted to feel love once more.
The train kept its speed in and out of broken darkness. The old lady watched Dillon and Maxxee, satisfied. Another piece of rubber loosened from the sole of her shoes. She paid no attention, only smiled. She viewed the other passengers who were unaware of the passion unfolding in their midst. The old lady sat motionless, fingers gripping the worn handles of her bag. She remembered.
It was my first quadroon ball in New Orleans. It’s where I first fell in love. Only it wasn’t with another Creole like me. No, chere. He was Allen Thibodeaux, the most handsome richest white man in all the South. How he swung me as we danced. How he took me after that, telling me I was the most beautiful girl. "Mademoiselle, you are one fabulous, wonderful creature. So beautiful, so very beautiful…" He said he wanted to take me away, to marry me. I believed him.
Instead, he married a girl from a rich white family. He returned to the balls, but I was no longer allowed to attend. I was pregnant.
Once he knew, he came to me. He put his head on my lap and knelt at my feet. "Anything you want, anything, ma cherie. You have only to speak it."
"Marry me," I said. "Leave her, and stay with me." Allen lifted his head. He spoke icily.
"I can not marry you. You are four steps removed from a nigger’s seed. Father would never stand for such a tainting on our name. He would disinherit me."
I slapped his face. He slapped me back, knocking me to the floor. He raped me. He took from me what I would no longer give. No one helped me though I screamed and fought. I was in disgrace because I had lost my virginity before there was a proper arrangement. Therefore, Allen was not obligated nor obliged to provide for me. He raped me, and no one cared.
The train jolted. Moans of Dillon and Maxxee came and went between the screams of the train. They clung together, skins damp. Maxxee’s head rested on Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon’s hands gripped Maxxee’s hips, lifting her, lowering her. The old lady sniffed the scent of ecstasy and rubbed her arms in the heady perfumed air. She thought on.
I was, alone, pregnant. Tanta sent me to see the priestess. She was supposed to relieve me of my baby. Nothing worked. The baby was strong and clung to me inside. Instead, my family paid the priestess to put a curse on Allen for his disregard. He knew the quadroon rules. No taste until the price was paid.
Suddenly, Allen began to send money. He arranged for a charming cottage for me and our child in the French Quarter. Once I was installed there, with a maid of my own, Allen visited me. He spoke of love. I took him to my bedroom. I’d been without a man for so long that he, in spite of his cruelty, was a welcome site. He gave me a beautiful antique ring to wear. Then he told me his wife died a week before he purchased my house. I did not ask how she died. I didn’t care. Allen was mine now.
When Allen’s father discovered me, he tried to force Allen to marry another white woman. Allen refused, saying that he’d had his fill of proper white girls and if he couldn’t marry me, he simply would not marry.
We shared one final night. When our lovemaking was over, we slept. Allen was still inside me. I heard a noise, and opened my eyes just in time to see a white hood leveling a pistol. I looked at Allen. He met my eyes, covering me with himself. I heard the blast. Then, nothing…
Small droplets fell from the old woman’s steel eyes. She sighed, removing the scarf from her head. Instantly, she was young again, and lovely. She watched as Dillon and Maxxee exploded in unison, a synchronized birthing. She watched as they struggled to breathe in their afterbirth. Their power made the blood surge faster through her veins. She gathered her things, and vanished.
Dillon stood, staring at the Black woman. His stop was next. Kirse would be waiting for him. Dillon thought, "As soon as I open the front door, I’m getting a piece of that." He looked down at his pants. Dry. How could that be when he just felt himself explode?
Maxxee turned away from Dillon. Her nipples shown hard through her silk blouse. "Who is he," she shakily asked herself. She reached for her sack and was shocked to see it on the floor. She slowly lifted it, glancing around the car. People were still doing people things. A cigar scented old man replaced the girl that had sat in front of her. She looked behind her. The old lady was gone. Maxxee gathered her sack. The next stop was hers.
Dillon moved towards the exit. Maxxee stood up and stepped in front of him. The car lurched forward, backward, then halted. Maxxee slammed into Dillon. Dillon put his hand intimately on her waist to steady her. At that moment, they both looked at the floor where the old woman had sat. There was a piece of old rubber. Dillon reached for it. It lay warm and flexible in his palm. Maxxee looked incredulously at the thing in Dillon’s hand. Dillon took Maxxee’s elbow and gently led her onto the platform.
Dillon peered deeply into Maxxee’s eyes. He saw her buttercream skin and curly black hair. He was speechless. His hand cradled her elbow, refusing to relinquish it.
"That was some train ride," was all Maxxee could think to say.
"Yes, it was." Dillon let go of Maxxee’s elbow, clearing his throat.
"Do I know you?" Maxxee hesitantly asked.
"Oh yeah, right. Name’s Dillon." He didn’t move.
"I’m Maxxee." The name rang no bells. She offered her hand. He squeezed it gently.
"Look, I don’t know what happened back there. It was weird, you know?"
"I know. Maybe we should return to the land of the living. My dog awaits me." Maxxee smiled.
"My wife…"
Maxxee began to walk away from him, legs shaky. She felt lonely again.
Dillon watched her leave, and the emptiness returned. He followed her. "Wait!" He caught her. "Listen, here’s my card. We need to talk. Call me." He held out his card, an offering. "Please."
Maxxee slid the card from his fingers. She raised her eyes from his hand. He kissed her lips, lingering. He turned and sprinted off.
Maxxee stood there, sack hanging limply. This strange white man had just kissed her on the subway platform. "Shit, I need a joint," she thought. She pocketed the card and left the platform. Once at street level, she removed the card. What was his name again? Maxxee held the card under a street lamp. She read the card twice. It read, "Dillon A.Thibodeaux, IV."
Maxxee removed her red scarf from her sack. She flung it around her face and neck, sashaying into the misty dampness of nightfall. She became a shadow, and was gone.
(NIKKI VIVIAN is a former resident of Plaquemines Parish,La-who now dwells in Manhattan -New York, Nikki Vivian can be reached at Joyqt@aol.com)
