Whether you’re a seasoned wordsmith or just getting started, this is your space to shine.
Each Blavity Short Story is a reflection of the voices that captivate, challenge and celebrate the beauty and complexity of Black experiences. So bring us your magic—your joy, your truth, your imagination.
Together, we’re building a literary future where every voice matters.
The sound of my doorbell thrust me from a magical dream, alongside my hubby and a sea of colorful blossoms. Gerald lay beside me in that vision, his pewter and black beard being slowly caressed by drifting rose petals, blown gently by the wind as we lay in silent bliss, wallowing in the aftermath of a lovemaking session so intense that I could feel it throughout my body as I lay in hibernation. Where we were and how we got there remained a mystery, though what was evident was Gerald and I wrapped up in one another. It was at the moment of a passionate kiss that the visitor at my front door took me away from my dream world.
“Always at the best part,” I sighed to myself as I removed my body from the lonely king-sized bed, placing my feet into my slippers.
On one hand, having someone disrupt my peace at 11:00 a.m. on my Friday off was mildly irritating—especially since I had planned to sleep in and pretend the day didn’t exist. On the other hand, no matter how much I wanted to stay in bed, I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was still my favorite day of the year.
“Mrs. DuLane?” asked the young flower delivery boy, who paced in place, obviously in a hurry to drop off the stunning sunflowers and continue on to the rest of the lovers in my neighborhood.
I took no offense, nodding and offering a grin as I took the big crystal vase into my hands.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, ma’am!” he yelled, nearly back at his vehicle before whipping down the street to make some other wife smile.
My Gerald was the most thoughtful man I’d ever met in my entire 51 years of living. Though it was our first Valentine’s Day apart in all of our 20-year marriage, he made sure that I felt his unwavering devotion from afar.
I noticed the age on my hands as I gently ripped the accompanying card open. No matter how many times Gerald would tell me, “Baby, you don’t look a day past 25,” I would always joke with him that the hands would tell it all.
However, as with every other part of life, I embraced every wrinkle as a statement of the wisdom I’d amassed throughout the decades. I married the love of my life at 31 and was shown each day that it was the single best decision I had ever made.
“To the ever so stunning Mrs. Leslie DuLane, you have quite the day ahead. Finish admiring your sunflowers, your favorite of all time, and get dressed. Your Valentine’s Day begins now. See you later tonight, my everything. -Gerald.”
My heart filled with anxiety and joy. I couldn’t help but giggle, thinking of my Gerald organizing some sort of surprise for me. There was no doubt I married a romantic man, but a coordinated one, he was not. Gerald was the type to put on his best overalls and work boots to paint the kitchen, only to end up hiring a professional in the end. I’d sip wine and watch as he fumbled over various tools, determined to be my Superman in every way. Before he took his trip, one of his last projects was attempting to grow sunflowers in our garden. My black curls, adorned with sporadic streaks of grey, would blow in the wind as I watched him tirelessly plant the seeds to absolutely no avail in the weeks to follow.
“You’re doing amazing, babe,” was all I had to offer as I secretly researched gardeners on my phone.
When Gerald would finally throw in the towel, I’d have the right people on standby. But I never discouraged him from his little undertakings. He always took much joy in the attempt, especially in his retirement. Besides, his husky, smooth brown build glistening under the sun was plenty of a treat for me.
I walked past the mirror in the dining area, where the flowers and card now resided. My skin was dry from neglect, my hair frizzy and untamed. Prior to Gerald leaving, I took such pride in my looks. I never had an issue with my dark skin or round face. Growing up in Alabama, where every girl in my immediate circle looked like me, we embraced our natural Black beauty. But seeing my current reflection, I wasn’t exactly fond of the woman who looked back at me. I’d “let myself go,” as my mama would say when any woman in her vicinity gained even 10 pounds. However, such a task was easy to do with the way my life was going.
Gerald told me not to let my depression overtake me, and I’d done just that. I thought pouring myself into work as a library assistant would keep my mind away from my husband leaving me to start fresh. However, being constantly tempted by hundreds of sappy romance novels that only pulled me in and reminded me of what I’d lost didn’t do much good. To my delight, Gerald confirmed in the card that we would be seeing one another later that day, and in honor of whatever this surprise business was all about, I knew I needed to spruce up.
As I glided back into my bedroom to begin my preparations, my cell phone rang. To my surprise, it was Sheila, likely realizing the significance of the day.
“Hey, honey! I hope you’re up and pulling yourself together for the full day ahead that your man planned for you,” her melodic voice sang into the phone.
Now, my curiosity was truly piqued. How had my best friend known about Gerald and his plans for Valentine’s Day? Sensing my apprehension, Sheila shed some insight on just how intricate my distant spouse had gotten with the details of our first Valentine’s Day apart.
“I know that brain of yours is over there spinning! Go ahead and look in the back of your bedroom closet. Tell me what you see,” Sheila commanded.
My feet moved faster than I could as I entered the massive walk-in closet, which Gerald had built for me to celebrate our tenth anniversary. It was nearly as big as our bedroom. He even had a chandelier installed to give it an extra glamorous flair. While much of it was dedicated to my massive wardrobe, Gerald’s much smaller designated space was surprisingly always so well-kept. Still, to Sheila’s credit, I never ventured too far into his side, fearing my items would eventually take over it the same way I had the rest of the room.
Hearing me rummaging through the racks and hangers, Sheila yelled into my ear for some assistance.
“Bottom right! Behind the yellow suitcase, girl!”
I pulled out the massive piece of luggage, only to be met with two shopping bags. One of them was from Macy’s, while the other exuded opulence with a large Neiman Marcus logo on the front.
“Now, Leslie girl, Gerald gave me very clear instructions, so listen up! Only open the Macy’s bag first! You should have your day outfit that you can throw on for the spa appointment. Do not touch that Neiman’s bag until it’s time to see your man, girl! You understand me?” Sheila playfully barked like a stern drill sergeant.
“Spa appointment?! Sheila, are you coming with me?” I desperately wanted to know more details as I rapidly fired questions off at the woman who’d been a sister to me for over 40 years.
However, it was apparent that whatever Gerald set up for me was a solo mission.
“Welp, I’d love to chat Les, but one of us has a spa date at noon so I suggest you get moving. Relaxation Station. Don’t be late girlie,” Sheila once again instructed before abruptly hanging up on me.
I sat on the warm carpeted floor a bit longer, cradling the Macy’s bag close to my chest, as my eyes scanned the closet filled with my husband’s presence. Gerald was thoughtful enough to pick up a pink and red Tommy Hilfiger jogging outfit and matching sandals, clearly wanting to ensure I was cozy during my full day ahead. I badly wanted to peek inside the luxury store shopping bag. After all, it wasn’t like Gerald was home to catch me. However, it was evident that he’d put much emphasis on the day, so I decided to respect him by going along with the plot.
Relaxation Station was surprisingly empty for Valentine’s Day, especially considering that it was one of the most popular spas in the area. I guess I was expecting lovers to be bustling about receiving couple massages or matching pedicures. The 20-something Black man greeted me at the front desk, immediately complimenting my February 14th ensemble. When I mentioned my name, his eyes lit up.
“Mrs. DuLane! We’ve been expecting you! Gerald told us to take great care of you today, or else,” the bubbly attendant joked. “You’re scheduled today for a deep tissue massage, an aloe butter facial, followed by a mani and pedi.”
“That all sounds lovely, darling, thank you. Will Gerald be join–,” I stopped myself mid-sentence as my host threw me a comforting glance.
Such questions were second nature, as Gerald and I were usually attached at the hip on this day. The young male employee caught my slip-up and had the perfect answer.
“Not to worry, Mrs. DuLane. You’ll see your husband soon enough,” he assured, leading me to a massage section, which stopped me completely in my tracks when we reached the entrance.
Awaiting me were red rose petals on the bed and floor. Shockingly, my second bouquet, this time an arrangement of long-stemmed red roses, was placed on a small table next to a customized robe that read, “Leslie ‘My Perfect Love’ DuLane.”
Seeing my eyes water, the sweet host gently patted my back before handing me a card.
“Your first stop of the day is not your final destination, my love. Relax and sit back. A trip down memory lane is next on your list. See you soon,” Gerald’s beautiful handwriting etched on the piece of paper.
The host exited, leaving me to undress in the tranquil chamber dimly lit by candles, with the soft sounds of Kenny G’s “Forever In Love” playing on a Bluetooth speaker. Gerald had meticulously curated this experience for me, down to the music.
“Forever In Love” was the song we danced to during our 15th wedding anniversary party. This level of thoughtfulness could not be taught. It was simply embedded in my husband.
By the time my masseuse entered the room, I was stripped down to my undies underneath the thin cover, allowing my emotions to become absorbed into the cushioned table. Gerald being away on this little voyage of his had weighed on me, yet his presence was felt throughout this building as if he’d built it with his own hands.
Relaxation Station had the perfect name. My entire body was loose, free of all tension. In true fashion, I drifted into sleep mid-massage. My masseuse gently tapped me awake when the 60-minute session was up. After getting dressed, I was led to the skincare area, where a Black esthetician administered the facial, another process that quickly caused me to doze off. I awoke to my face feeling refreshed, a stark contrast to my parched skin from earlier in the morning.
Lastly, I was led to the nail salon within the facility, where two older Spanish women quickly got to work on my hands and feet. Since I opted only to have my real nails painted in a bright pink gel, my session was fairly quick, at least, it felt that way due to our immediate conversation about the recent election. With Donald Trump back in office, the women, who revealed they were originally from Tijuana, Mexico, expressed their anxiety about the grim news cycle, warning of mass deportations. Identifying themselves as Lucy and Mikel, after they serviced me, I tipped both $20 each and offered a quick prayer with the ladies. Thankfully, the nail salon was empty, with the exception of us. Therefore, we weren’t subjected to any unwarranted stares and disdain.
My peaceful appointment concluded as I walked past the front desk with my roses in my arms. A text message notification informed me that I had a dinner reservation for 5:00 p.m. at one of my favorite restaurants, La Vie. This was another special place that Gerald and I bonded over.
Aside from it being a date night favorite, it’s where we held his retirement dinner. Gerald was a devoted biology teacher for 20 years at MacFarland Middle School. He committed his life to educating the youth, in and out of the classroom. When he wasn’t teaching, he was mentoring teenage boys in the community. My Gerald remains loved by all, with former students frequently approaching us, now adults with families of their own. They’d gleam with pride while introducing Gerald to their significant others and little ones, their inner children eager to impress their favorite educator.
I let out a deep sigh as I drove myself away from the spa, and headed home to again prepare for my next adventure, though that urge of wanting to crawl back into bed and await Gerald to walk through the door or at least call crept back in. I appreciated the distractions, but it was all becoming a bit too much.
Before I could fully pull my Toyota into the driveway, my cell phone rang. My other good girlfriend Janelle, was calling.
“Mrs. DuLane, are you home getting dressed?” she quizzed, her strong Memphis accent both comforting and demanding.
Janelle’s tone told me she was also familiar with Gerald’s plans for me. Water welled up in my eyes as she confirmed my suspicions. The girlfriend, whom I met during my brief stint at Tennessee State many moons ago, was in Washington D.C. on Valentine’s Day of all occasions.
“I know damn well you didn’t make me fly out here with all these white folks just for you to be running late? Girl, don’t piss me off today! Not on Lover’s Day!” Janelle playfully yelled into the phone, her southern accent filling the entire car.
“Janelle! My God! Where are you?! When did you get in?” I quizzed, frantically firing off questions.
The beauty of Janelle is that every laugh she let out came from the soul in a way that reminded you of Sunday dinners and family spade games on Thanksgiving. No matter where she went in the world, her Memphis roots were strong and felt with every word. Our time together as college roommates was brief, as it didn’t take me long to discover that higher education wasn’t my calling. Still, Janelle was one of the few people who didn’t judge me when I made the decision to drop out. Even after I returned to Alabama, she helped me move and was kind enough to stock my fridge in my first studio apartment when my mother forbade me from moving back into my childhood home due to my decision to leave her alma mater. After marrying Gerald and relocating to D.C., Janelle and I would go years without connecting in person, partially due to her busy WNBA career and subsequent coaching opportunities. However, our weekly phone calls kept our bond intact, and anytime I would fly out to attend her games or the occasional girls’ trip, we’d have the time of our lives. Knowing that she was in town only made me want to run to her. That type of love was unmatched.
“Honey, don’t worry about me. Now listen, Gerald purchased you something nice to wear for dinner tonight! Go get yourself together! Me and the girls will be waiting!” Janelle instructed.
“Janelle?”
“Yes, Mrs. DuLane?”
“I love you. You don’t know what this means to me,” I sniffled.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sista,” she assured me before ending our call.
I held the phone to my ear for several more minutes as I allowed myself to be engulfed in the sentiments. Moments later, I had finally gathered the strength to pull myself together enough to drag my body into our home with my latest floral arrangement from the spa. The empty home made my heart heavy and even slightly resentful. Before Gerald left, he told me to refrain from calling his phone. It would only frustrate me when he was unable to answer or speak with me right away. Ignoring his instructions, I dialed his number upon placing the vase on our dining room table next to the sunflowers. Of course, I was met by his voicemail, which made me beam. My man was very much stuck in the early 2000s, his jovial greeting exclaiming, “Yo, this is Gerald. After the beep, you know what to do.”
I was warmed by the sound of his voice, though I declined to leave a message. Wherever he was, I didn’t want to disturb Gerald or give him reason to feel uneasy. My attention quickly turned to the analog clock on my living room wall. It was already three o’clock, and Gerald had seemingly had me on a tight schedule.
Another phone notification came through from Sheila, forcing my concentration back to the Neiman Marcus present waiting for me in the back of my closet.
“Make sure you put that beautiful dress on from your man. And don’t keep us waiting!” the text message read.
My sandals hit the hardwood floors running, pouncing on the second gift in our master closet. Inside the bag was a stunning gift-wrapped box, so delicately put together that I almost didn’t want to rip it up. I was careful to unwrap the silver and red paper, unveiling a pink and cream silk Emilio Pucci gown. The floor-length spaghetti-strapped dress fell right above my feet. This dress was so stunning that it warranted something a bit more special than my Steve
Madden wedges, which I wore with just about everything. This fancy garment required my Christian Louboutin So Me Spike heels.
I would never purchase such an expensive shoe for myself, but during a mall run last year, Gerald caught me eyeing them and surprised me the following day. I always saved them for special affairs, partly because my knees were no longer made for stilettos the way they once were, and every woman knows a Christian Louboutin heel is no joke. However, for the occasion, my hubby left me no choice.
After a quick shower, I poured myself into my stunning gown. As expected, it was a perfect fit. I admired myself in our full-length bedroom mirror, in awe of this statement piece, which was now the highlight of my wardrobe. I didn’t put much effort into my hair, allowing my coils to fall every which way. I only bothered applying a bit of curling custard and water, which left my hair in a wild, bouncy bush. As far as makeup, I decided against it except for rose-colored lip gloss. Those years of chemical peels had finally corrected the acne scars of my youth, and my fresh face “ate,” as my adolescent nieces would say.
A deep sigh escaped me, and while I fought the desire to dial Gerald’s phone again, careful not to disturb him, I couldn’t help but send him a quick text as my reflection stared back at me.
“You’ve outdone yourself, honey. I look good enough to eat, in your words. Thank you so much, baby, for today and every day,” I wrote, nervously hitting the send button.
Upon seeing my text message being delivered, I was reminded of Gerald’s “Do Not Disturb” message, which only made my eyes moist once again.
“Shake it off, Leslie,” I reminded myself as I took one last look in the large glass, patting dry my face as a single tear fell.
Blossoms hung down in strings from the ceiling in La Vie. The entire rooftop restaurant was filled with white and pastel floral arrangements as the sounds of jazz filled the air. Couples at every turn were cozying up, holding hands, and even exchanging kisses without a care for who may be watching. I was nearly consumed by the heavy romance in the atmosphere as my waiter led me to my party. We approached the door of a dining room in the rear of the building, where two other waitresses were standing at the entrance. They smiled as I got closer, both of them holding bouquets of pink cosmos. It was evident that they were expecting me, standing to the left of the door as a poster-sized image of Gerald and I from our wedding day stood on a tall black easel.
That was it. The tears couldn’t be contained for another second. What poured out of my body was not a cry. It was a sob, a loud one. The young white woman who escorted me to the room softly caressed my back, empathetic to the fact that my confident exterior had finally cracked.
“Gerald said you might become emotional, which is why he’s gathered your favorite people here today,” she stated in a low tone, nearly a whisper. One of the waiters attending the door slowly turned the knob, and through my stream of waterworks, I saw the five women who meant the most to me. In addition to Sheila and Janelle, Myra, Anita, and Karen stood to their feet as I entered the dining room, each of them dressed in Valentine’s Day hues.
“My God!” were the only words I could muster as they sang in unison,
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. DuLane!”
The waiters clapped as I moved around the table, hugging each of my dear friends, starting with Anita, who was closest to the entrance. A former colleague of Gerald’s, Anita, and I had grown close over the years. Next to her was Myra, Gerald’s only sister, who quickly became my own after we got married. Her kind smile eased my anxiety, as she was probably the woman who had the most insight into my situation with Gerald. She was among the first people to know that he would be away for Valentine’s Day and was likely the mastermind behind making my day such a success.
“You look as beautiful as ever!” Myra shouted, squeezing me tightly into her chubby arms.
She released me momentarily, taking a long, hard look at me before embracing me once more. Then I moved on to Janelle. Ironically, she wore a tan and mauve pantsuit, which were the same colors as my dress. Janelle immediately noticed that I detected these similarities.
“Yes, we’re twins today. I’m your date, bitch!” she yelled, sending the entire room into roaring laughter.
I could only laugh and shake my head at her goofiness. The former basketball star bent down to hug me, wrapping me up in her long, slender arms.
“My sista, today is all about you,” she whispered in my ear.
When I finally sat in my seat, the waiters placed my latest bouquets in front of me before bringing me my favorite drink, their signature mango-spiced rose martini. As I looked around the private dining area, the tender loving care of it all came into view. Small framed photos of myself and each of my guests adorned the table, with heart-shaped balloons in each corner of the
room. On the large flat-screen television mounted on the wall behind Janelle, my wedding video played on mute. As the ladies rambled off their drink orders to the wait staff, Karen caught me slowly fading into the memories and gently grabbed my hand. No words were exchanged; instead, she smirked, letting me know in our unspoken language that she saw me and that she had me. I was safe.
“Now Leslie, I didn’t know you were a Pucci girl. You know that’s more my style,” Janelle joked.
“Well, get you a man like G, and the sky’s the limit, honey,” I quipped back.
“Too bad I like coochie, honey. I am the ‘Mr. G,’” Janelle quickly shot back, sending the table into another fit of laughter.
Janelle reminded me of a more mature Jerrie Johnson. Her stature might have been intimidating to some, but she was a jokester at heart. Her short blonde hair was full of deep waves and lay perfectly against her deep brown complexion. She was enchanting, and her massive personality and heart matched that.
The evening drifted on. Drinks flowed, and dishes ranging from stuffed salmon to parmesan-crusted chicken breast covered the table. Stories of the past warmed the room. The only woman at the dinner who was not at my wedding was Anita, as she became a confidant after our nuptials. Still, she fit in seamlessly with the rest of my close circle, who gave her the scoop on our younger days hitting Las Vegas for the weekend and even our long nights at the Palladium in Northeast D.C.
Even Anita and I had our fun moments, throwing the best game nights at her home on weekends since she wasn’t much of a club girl, even in her younger years. We even took couple trips together before her husband, Chris, packed up and left. Gerald and I would allow her to accompany us on our date nights, with G often becoming the third wheel as Anita and I got tipsy and blasted Chris for hours.
The waiters re-entered the room, this time holding a small gold gift bag. The ladies, in unison, let out a loud, “Aww.”
“Another something special from your man, girl!” Karen squealed as they placed the present in front of me.
I noticed Janelle and Sheila with their cell phones out, ready to record my reaction. My excitement could hardly be contained as I reached down into the bag, pulling out the card first. In his meticulous handwriting, Gerald had penned:
“I know I’ve been promising to upgrade your ring for a while now, Mrs. DuLane. A bigger diamond for the brightest star of my show. Happy Valentine’s Day to the best wife, the best partner, and the best woman to ever walk this earth and the afterlife. I know you’re wearing that dress. Can’t wait to see you later, Queen.”
Myra patted her eyes dry as I read the card aloud to the ladies before retrieving the black velvet box from Boone & Sons Jewelers. Once I opened it, a princess-cut diamond surrounded by shimmering baguettes sparkled up at me.
“He did good, y’all!” I wailed to my girls, who cheered in approval as I slipped it onto my right index finger, quickly deciding that I would wear both my rings, at least for now.
As I admired my new rock, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the words written inside the ring box.
“Will you join me?”
The words stopped me in my tracks. I replayed the sentence over in my mind silently as my crew chattered loudly about my radiant surprise, which transitioned to a conversation about cheap men refusing to buy quality diamonds. But I was preoccupied with the proposal.
“What does he mean?” I pondered to myself.
Part of me believed I knew what this meant, though the answer was tricky. What was painfully evident was that my heart simply couldn’t go on with the distance for much longer.
Coming Home
Extended hugs and promises to reconnect before Janelle left town were exchanged before I rode away from La Vie with my gifts, which included my lovely new bling. Despite it being a beautiful gesture, the ring was now the furthest thing from my mind. The moment had come to finally reunite with my husband. While I valued the spa treatment, endless blooms, and quality sisterhood time, my man was waiting for me. It had been long enough.
Back at home, I placed the cosmos on the dining room table, alongside the delivered sunflowers and vase of roses from Relaxation Station. I admired the stunning arrangements, which emitted a soft aroma in the small space. I glanced at myself in the wall mirror on the way to Gerald’s home office, fluffing my curls one final time, eager for my dearest to see me at my absolute best.
“I’m on my way, Gerald,” I uttered to myself before entering his workspace.
Over 100 flameless votive candles lined the room. More beautifully framed snapshots of us were meticulously placed in his office, which was once used to grade papers and create lesson plans. The television remote control sat on his cherrywood desk with a sticky note attached that read, “Press play.”
Following directions, I aimed the controller at the 60-inch television on the mantle.
“Mrs. DuLane, so glad you finally made it,” Gerald’s smile radiated from the screen and brightened up the dimly lit office.
My body melted into his rolling desk chair, watching my person—now thinner with a shiny bald head—still managing to be just as handsome as the first day I laid eyes on him.
“First and foremost, Happy Valentine’s Day, beauty. If you’ve made it to this video, I’m already gone, and I can only imagine how hard this day must have been for you. That’s why I rallied the troops in hopes of easing this pain just a tad, as I knew there was no way I would make it to your favorite holiday, no matter how hard I fought,” he added, looking directly into the camera from his hospital bed. “Myra, Sheila, Janelle, Karen, and Anita are the real MVPs. I know you’re in great hands, dear, which has helped make this transition a little better for me.”
With each word from his weakened body, I wept harder. Gerald was absolutely right about his battle. As each day got harder than the one before, he woke up and gave prostate cancer his all until that very final stint in the hospital. I had no idea which day Gerald recorded this video, but judging by his appearance, I was certain it was near the end.
“You’re probably wondering how I pulled all this off, Mrs. DuLane,” Gerald laughed. “Well, Janelle chose that beautiful gown you’re wearing, and I told Sheila to take my credit card and go crazy with the flowers and the spa date. Let’s hope she got it all right. Yeah, honey, we kicked all this off about three weeks before my grand exit, that same day when those specialists told us there was nothing else to be done. Let’s just say making your day special took precedence over those damn ‘final preparations’ they told me to start making. Bastards. I’ll never forgive them for making you fall apart that day. I’ll haunt all their asses.”
He’d finally gotten a giggle out of me with that last line. He jokingly told every doctor we visited that he would make their earthly lives hell if they hurt my feelings with bad news. After receiving the diagnosis, just eight months before his death, Gerald immediately began treatment, despite being up against a stage four monster that had spread. My frustration with my husband arrived when he broke down and told me all of the symptoms he’d brushed off for at least three years. Even in my shock, I never had the heart to voice my anger toward him. That’s not how I wanted to spend our final months together, though we both hoped for the best.
“Oh yeah, I had that ring you got on for almost a year, getting ready for our 21st anniversary in Jamaica. I handed it off to Myra for safekeeping,” he grinned with satisfaction on the screen, almost as if he was truly watching me fiddle with it.
“I hate that you’ve changed your mind about going, but since you made it crystal clear you wouldn’t board that flight without me, I was hoping we could make other plans. Just me and you, taking a trip to a place where this nasty disease doesn’t exist.”
His words pierced me deeply as I glanced around the room. Even with the many reminders of his affection, our house was not a home without Gerald.
“Check the top drawer of the desk, sweetie. The way to our forever is right there,” he instructed.
I looked toward the half-open top drawer of the desk, which also had a Post-it note stuck to it, reading “Open me,” with a smiley face.
Inside, there was his Glock-19, 9MM, with another bright yellow paper attached. “Come with me,” this time with a heart drawn.
“If you truly have no plans of enjoying that Jamaica vacation, then I’m asking you to be with me for our anniversary, Leslie. You shouldn’t have to do it alone another day when I’ve made plans for you on the other side,” Gerald explained, as I held the firearm in my shaking hand, my tears hitting the steel.
I lifted my head, locking eyes with his through the screen. My entire life flashed before me. From my childhood in Alabama to meeting each of my close girlfriends. My estrangement from my mother dated back to my college dropout days, so I doubted she would mourn my death once the insurance money hit her bank account. However, my heart ached for the group of women who regarded me as a sister. They would be left with a hurt that would span the rest of their lives. Could I truly rest in peace knowing they would each have to carry that burden? Especially Myra, who was already grieving the painful loss of her brother. She put on a brave face to support me even when she herself wanted to fall apart. Leaving Myra behind felt like the biggest betrayal.
On the other hand, if La Vie was their final memory of me, then the bonding we shared in that last hurrah may comfort them in the years to come. My admiration for each of those women was profound, though my longing to be with Gerald was much stronger. It was time.
“Leslie, baby, will you join me?” he asked sweetly, echoing the message from the ring box.
Slowly lifting the gun to my right temple, while reciting Luke 23:43 internally, my decision was made.
“Yes,” and a firm pull of the trigger followed, reuniting Gerald and me in an instant, my eternal love.
The End.
