The Art of Love

         Sometimes I wake up early, while the sun is still too low to see, and I just lie there, waiting until the light begins to slowly seep across the floor towards the bed.  That’s my favorite part of those days; the ones where he is here, in my bed, like he has every right to be next to me. 
         
         I met him the previous summer, the day after the fall semester began, when he happened to occupy the easel across from mine in Human Form 203.  I was much more interested in studying his form, than I was the model’s.  After that, I spent a large portion of each class sketching him into the margins of my work, and became slightly obsessed with perfecting the slope of his nose, his full lips, the exact shadow of his skin, and his dreadlocks.  I paid him more attention than I did the instructor, but if he noticed, he never let on.  I thought he was beautiful, but I was afraid to even talk to him.  I also thought I was being discrete until he peered around the edge of my easel.
         “How long have you been drawing me?” he asked, smiling.  His skin made his teeth look whiter that white.
         “Since the class started,” I admitted shamelessly, even though my face heated up, and I was sure my embarrassment was obvious.
         “Why?” 
         “Because I think you’re beautiful.  You have nice lines,” I said, and hoped he understood what I meant.  I unclipped the day’s drawing anyway, and folded it before he could see. 
         “What’s your name?”
         “Kim.”  I held my hand out, like my daddy taught me to, and he put his palm into mine.  I liked the way our skin contrasted, and told myself it was purely because of the visual interest.  “What’s yours?”
         “Malachi.  Would you like to have a drink with me, Kim?”   
         
         We go out every night after that, and on the seventh evening, I let him walk me to the door of my apartment, and then I let him in and he stays.  His skin captivates me, and never in the vastness of my creativity had I imagined how the shadow of his color could thrill me.  But it isn’t only that.  Everything about him is new and exhilarating.  The texture of his body is different from the few boys I’ve been with before.  Malachi is a man, and he treats me like a woman before I know what it means to really be one.

         He takes me oyster bars, and shady restaurants where we eat greasy po’boys and drink warm Cokes.  We go to jazz clubs, piano bars, and even a peep show on Bourbon Street.  We draw each other in bed, and once he paints my skin, covering my entire body with red lines and spots.  He tells me of Brooklyn, about street vendors and hot dog stands, and the noise of the city, while I spin lovely stories of the south, and tell him old wives’ tales.  He teaches me how to roll dreads and how to corn row, and I show him how to polish nails, and things are good.  We’re happy, and our friends are pleased, and we make good grades and talk about the future.

         When my parents come to visit from Tennessee, Malachi says he’s excited to meet them.  On their first night in town, they’re at my apartment, and while Mom and I have mojitos on the balcony, my father is looking through a sketch pad I left on my coffee table.  He’s waiting to pounce on me when we come inside to refill our glasses.
         “What is this?” he asks.  Malachi’s likeness stares back at me from the paper in his hand.  I drew him in my bed, and he’s clearly sleeping.  I was proud of the stark way the white sheets stood out against his skin. 
         “His name’s Malachi,” I tell him.  “He’s in one of my classes.” 
         “Maybe they used him for a study?” my mother interjects.  “Right?” she asks me.  “They do things like that in art classes, don’t they, baby?”
         “You better cut it off, young lady,” Dad tells me.  He isn’t fooled by my mother’s words. “I expect you to stop seeing this boy.” 
         I say nothing.  What can I say?  I can’t promise my daddy I won’t see Malachi.  After all, Tennessee is far from New Orleans. 
         
         We don’t stop, and soon I’m certain I’m in love.  Malachi says he loves me, too, but I worry.  Is loving him enough though?  I think it might be, in Brooklyn, but I don’t know about Chattanooga.  I try to tell him southerners are funny about novelties like me and him.  We don’t stand out so much here, but we would at home, and I start to spend lots of time imagining my grandmother meeting Malachi, or taking him to church with me, and I keep asking myself if love is enough. 

         I tell my father I’m not coming home for Christmas, but I don’t tell him I’m going to Brooklyn.  I wonder if he knows I’m not staying in Louisiana.  I meet Malachi’s family and they’re great.  They are happy to know me and make me feel welcome, never causing me to think I don’t belong with him.  He takes me all over the city, and I love every moment.  I draw him on the fire escape of his mother’s apartment, and its one of the most striking sketches I’ve ever created.  I throw splashes of color behind him, stylizing the city lights, and signs, and the people on the streets, trying to capture the essence of New York with chalk.  And Malachi is there, in the foreground; he’s dark and lovely, and I’m proud.  Still, I wonder if my pride is enough. 

Summer comes, and I know I can’t avoid my family forever.  But I email my mother, telling her I’ve decided to enroll for summer classes so I can graduate early.  I don’t mention I’ve applied for an internship in New York.  I do tell Malachi’s mother, when she calls to wish me a happy birthday.  She’s glad we’ll be closer, and urges me to talk to my parents.  I tell her I don’t know what I’ll do, and she insists they’ll understand. 
“Its love and they have to,” she says.  I want to believe her. 

         “Kimball Williams…” Malachi whispers.  “I love you.  You’re going to be my wife.”
         “Yes,” I murmur.  I know now that love is enough, that we have something that other people struggle and sweat for, while it comes easy to us. 
         Malachi says what I’m thinking.  “If the biggest thing we have to face is your parents, then we’ll be fine.”
         “I know,” I say, and I believe him because love is an art, and nothing so beautiful can be confined to monochrome.