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Authors: Cynthia White
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foot inside the door. She was going to be a bigger challenge than I first thought. If I didn’t think she was worth it , I wouldn’t even have bothered - but I knew she was my Boss Bitch ...a ll I had to do now was get her to realize it as well.
After the tour , I poured us a second glass of champagne and led my guest to the dining room , where the Italian feast I ’d ordered earlier that night was waiting. I knew the owner of Mariono’s well ; I scratched his back , and he scratched mine. He never kept his kitchen open pas t eleven and rarely delivered his fine cuisine - but this was a personal favor. He owed me one ; a ctually, he owed me a few - but if this went the way I saw it going , I ’ d be sure to invite him to our Boss wedding. A nigga was just that sprung ; I hadn’t even gotten the pussy yet , and I was already trying to wife her up.
“You do this for all yo women, Boss?” s he tried to act like she wasn’t impressed , “ o r you gonna try and convince me that I’m special?”
I pulled out her chair and waited until she took a seat. She didn’t need me to tell her she was special ; s he already knew she was. She carried herself like she had royal blood running through her veins. It was the pedigree I wanted in my bloodline. She was the kind of woman I wanted to be the mother of my children. I was starting to think about shit like that. What good was all money, the big house, the cars , and all the other perks if you didn’t have anyone to share it with? usere it wNow that we were alone in my home , I had the chance to pick her brain and see if the vision I had for my future was anywhere close to the one she had for hers.
I kept the dinner conversation light. We talked enough about ourselves to keep it interesting, but not too much that it got entirely too deep for a first date. It felt good to be in the company of an intelligent woman. Kitty had been places I ’ d only seen in magazines , and I listened like an adoring fan while she told me all about her adventures. She made me think about taking my own trips.
After our three course meal , we took the conversation into the living room and let our tired bodies relax on my custom ordered caramel leather Natuzzi sectional sofa. Kitty looked good lounging in my usual spot , and I didn’t mind ; I ’ d have let her sit on my lap if that’s what she wanted.
Our third glass of champagne veered the conversation in another direction. I sat back and listened while Kitty told me everything I needed to know about her. She was married before (t hat much I already knew ) , but what happened and why she was now alone was still a mystery to me. I didn’t ask any questions ; I just sat there with an open mind and paid attention while she told her story.
“His name was Christoff." She smiled as she began to reminisce. “Everybody called him Chris. He hated that name, ‘ Christoff. ’ ” She looked at me and laughed at what was obviously an inside joke between her and her husband. “I met him when I was seventeen. My mother hated him , ” s he laughed again , “ b ut then again , my mother hates everybody.” Suddenly, t he look on her face went from one of joy to one of pain. “Anyway, Chris was twenty years older than me , but o ur birthdays were on the exact same day. When I turned eighteen , he turned thirty-eight.”
“That’s why yo mama hated him , ” I said, offer ing up my first comment on her history. “That’s a big age difference.”
“Yeah , ” s he agreed with me. “She thought he was too old for me , and she was probably right - but I didn’t care. I fell so hard for him so fast.” Tears began to well up in her eyes. “He saw something in me that nobody else did. He believed in me. He supported my ideas , ” s he said, wip ing away the tears as quickly as they fell , “ n o matter how silly they were.”
For the first time since I’d know n her , I saw the real Katrina. ‘
After the tour , I poured us a second glass of champagne and led my guest to the dining room , where the Italian feast I ’d ordered earlier that night was waiting. I knew the owner of Mariono’s well ; I scratched his back , and he scratched mine. He never kept his kitchen open pas t eleven and rarely delivered his fine cuisine - but this was a personal favor. He owed me one ; a ctually, he owed me a few - but if this went the way I saw it going , I ’ d be sure to invite him to our Boss wedding. A nigga was just that sprung ; I hadn’t even gotten the pussy yet , and I was already trying to wife her up.
“You do this for all yo women, Boss?” s he tried to act like she wasn’t impressed , “ o r you gonna try and convince me that I’m special?”
I pulled out her chair and waited until she took a seat. She didn’t need me to tell her she was special ; s he already knew she was. She carried herself like she had royal blood running through her veins. It was the pedigree I wanted in my bloodline. She was the kind of woman I wanted to be the mother of my children. I was starting to think about shit like that. What good was all money, the big house, the cars , and all the other perks if you didn’t have anyone to share it with? usere it wNow that we were alone in my home , I had the chance to pick her brain and see if the vision I had for my future was anywhere close to the one she had for hers.
I kept the dinner conversation light. We talked enough about ourselves to keep it interesting, but not too much that it got entirely too deep for a first date. It felt good to be in the company of an intelligent woman. Kitty had been places I ’ d only seen in magazines , and I listened like an adoring fan while she told me all about her adventures. She made me think about taking my own trips.
After our three course meal , we took the conversation into the living room and let our tired bodies relax on my custom ordered caramel leather Natuzzi sectional sofa. Kitty looked good lounging in my usual spot , and I didn’t mind ; I ’ d have let her sit on my lap if that’s what she wanted.
Our third glass of champagne veered the conversation in another direction. I sat back and listened while Kitty told me everything I needed to know about her. She was married before (t hat much I already knew ) , but what happened and why she was now alone was still a mystery to me. I didn’t ask any questions ; I just sat there with an open mind and paid attention while she told her story.
“His name was Christoff." She smiled as she began to reminisce. “Everybody called him Chris. He hated that name, ‘ Christoff. ’ ” She looked at me and laughed at what was obviously an inside joke between her and her husband. “I met him when I was seventeen. My mother hated him , ” s he laughed again , “ b ut then again , my mother hates everybody.” Suddenly, t he look on her face went from one of joy to one of pain. “Anyway, Chris was twenty years older than me , but o ur birthdays were on the exact same day. When I turned eighteen , he turned thirty-eight.”
“That’s why yo mama hated him , ” I said, offer ing up my first comment on her history. “That’s a big age difference.”
“Yeah , ” s he agreed with me. “She thought he was too old for me , and she was probably right - but I didn’t care. I fell so hard for him so fast.” Tears began to well up in her eyes. “He saw something in me that nobody else did. He believed in me. He supported my ideas , ” s he said, wip ing away the tears as quickly as they fell , “ n o matter how silly they were.”
For the first time since I’d know n her , I saw the real Katrina. ‘
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