The Shards of Serenity (3 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

SERENITY DAVIS

It took four hours for my first post-traumatic episode to end, and only four voicemails from my insane ex-husband to remind me why I was so shaken. Throughout his messages he told me he hated me, he told me he loved me, and most frighteningly of all, he told me he’d find me. Before I could catch myself receding back into a tear-stained position, I decided it was time to do something different; and so I smashed my moral compass and went to the local bar.

Upon arrival, I was taken aback by everything I saw. Washed up middle-aged couples danced without a concept of rhythm, while drunk women threw back shots, and men gazed at them like vultures. Echoes of my strict upbringing bounced through my head, as I wondered if I’d become as heedlessly sinful as most people my age. Before anxiety got the best of me, I decided it didn’t matter, and that the most important thing was making it through the night with my sanity intact.

I sashayed to the bar with an awkward confidence, and quietly placed my order with the bartender. “I’ll have something fruity,” I uttered; hoping I’d be able to stomach whatever ethanol-smelling concoction he mustered up. With little delay, a glass filled with neon-purple mystery was presented in front of me, and I slid a twenty dollar bill forward. I realistically had no concept of how much drinks cost or what an appropriate tip might be. I’d been raised to believe that R&B music was inherently evil and that anything on television after nine o’ clock was the product of Satan.

As I took my first sips of the grape-flavored cocktail, my eyes scanned the room sheepishly. After a minute of eavesdropping on conversations and taking in the plastic décor, I noticed one pair of eyes glued to me that I honestly didn’t mind.

Standing at six-foot-two with gelled brown hair, a matching goatee, and pure ivory skin; he was the essence of masculinity with a style that was refreshingly chic. I subtly smiled as I noticed him walking my way; his eyes fixed on the vacant seat to my right.

“I’m not one to approach strangers,” he started, in a smooth baritone voice that awakened my lower half. “But, may I have this seat next to you?”

“It’s a public place,” I said, sounding unintentionally cold. “Feel free.”

“So I’ve met a lot of women in my life,” he continued, as he adjusted himself upon the high stool. “But, they’ve all virtually been the same. They say they want a relationship, but they’ll settle for dick. They say they want a home, but they’ll live in any house. They say they want happiness, but they settle for mediocrity. Now, I might be inebriated, I might be rash, and/or I might be completely misreading you. But, looking into your eyes, even from across this building, I see something different. There’s strength, there’s pain, and there’s a glowing sense of beauty. What’s your name?”

“My name’s Serenity,” I slowly stated; feeling my jaw drop, pussy moisten, and mind wonder what the fuck I’d gotten myself into. “That was almost as beautiful as it was insane. Do you always walk up to women and start freestyling poetry?”

“I’m a poet, but that wasn’t poetry. And no, like I said, most women settle for the three things I mentioned.”

“So, you give them mediocre dick at your house?” I joked, feeling a mix of calmness, playfulness, and uncharacteristic interest.

“I feel like we’re starting on the wrong foot. My name’s Markus - it’s nice to meet you Serenity.”

Before I could respond, I felt a light bulb go off in my head. “Markus…you’re not Markus Glenn are you? The local poet?”

“That would be me.”

“Oh my God! I’m not a groupie, so don’t get too excited. But, I’ve read Pieces of My Soul about six times in the last year. You helped get me through a really rough patch in my life.”

“Thank you, and I didn’t walk over here so I could marginalize you to a groupie. But, I do have a question. What’s a beautiful woman like you doing going through a ‘rough patch’ in life? I thought those were reserved for writers, musicians, and sociopaths.”

For the next two hours, drinks poured and perfect conversation was exchanged. The chemistry was flawless, the attraction was magnetic, and for a moment, it felt like everything was okay. I opened up about my ex-husband, the abuse I endured, and my fears about starting a new life with virtually no outside support. Markus opened up about his past drug addiction, his seemingly cushy career as a writer, and the endless drama that he faced in the pursuit of love. As I listened, I dreamed of washing his dilemmas away like laundry, and creating a life together that was seamless. I nearly forgot about my unchecked baggage, and the fact that I still carried a criminal’s last name. As the bar announced “closing time in ten minutes,” Markus turned his stool and faced me directly.

“Serenity, listen. Everything about this conversation was perfect, and meeting you was a blessing from whatever God actually exists. I know if either of us wanted to, we could use this experience as a segue into either of our apartments for hot, steamy, fifty-position sex. But, I can’t do that. I understand you’re going through a lot; but I love what I’m hearing, and I’d like to get to know you better, if you’ll allow me to.”

“Continue to make a mark on this,” I said, as I placed Markus’ hand over my fast-beating heart. “And, one day, you can get all of this,” I concluded, as I glided his hand over my soaking wet crotch.

“Hey, you two get a room!” barked the closing manager, wearing a wrinkled white shirt, department store tie, and a gut that hung over his waistline.

“No harm, no foul,” I uttered, as I got up and felt the effects of several drinks settle in. “Serenity Davis is my full name. Look me up on that website all the hipsters use, and send me a message. I had a great time, too.”

Before the word “goodbye” could be exchanged, I sashayed out of the bar and flagged down a taxi. If there were two things in life I hated at that moment; they were being hit in the face, and seeing good things end. This was a new beginning, and I couldn’t be more excited.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MARKUS GLENN

I woke up the next morning to shrieking feminine cries, and the sound of a glass Smartphone screen being smashed against my kitchen counter. I haphazardly jumped out of bed, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, and ran out to my living room.

“This shit always happens!” howled Simone, as tears jetted from her eyes, running expensive eyeliner down her cheeks dramatically. “I can’t do this anymore!”

“Simone, what’s going on?” I rasped, as I overcame a tickle in my dehydrated throat, and a soreness pulsate through my dreary muscles.

“You know that modeling contract that I’ve been celebrating all week?” she asked, in a tone that combined defeat with depression. “It’s off the table. It was supposed to be signed and finalized in less than an hour, and just now they called to say it was cancelled.”

“Why would a top agency back out of a $25,000 contract last minute like that? Weren’t they the ones that scouted you?”

“Yeah, they did. And then, upon further research, someone in their office found out I was transgender. I went from being ‘the perfect candidate for their brand’ to ‘not a good fit’ because of the genitalia I was born with.”

“Simone, that’s fucked up; but maybe it’s for the best. Even if they never found out, would you have really been happy working for a company with values that skewed?”

“Markus, you’re my best friend, but sometimes I’m not sure you understand the cards life dealt me. Their perception isn’t ‘skewed’; it’s mainstream. This World isn’t set up for women like me. We get opportunities, and we get them taken away before they come into fruition. Men leave us, employers lose interest, and friends refuse to be seen in public with us; all because of a fact we can’t change. I guess I should have accepted that and been on government aide by now. At least they accept ‘body dysmorphia’ as a legitimate condition.”

As I searched for the words to console my friend, I came up blank. I’d survived chemical dependence, familial death, and a variety of failure; but I’d never been oppressed for the skin I was in. Sensing my unease, Simone sat down on the sofa and patted the seat next to her.

“Markus, sit down. We’ve gone through recovery and a variety of mishaps together. But, there’s still so much about my past you don’t know. I see the confusion in your eyes, so let me help you understand.”

“Your past doesn’t matter. You’re a new person today, blessed with a myriad of new opportunities. Don’t get nostalgic to the point that it ruins that.”

“As this morning has reminded me, I can ruin opportunities just by being myself. I’m not sure I know any different. From the time I can first remember, I never felt comfortable in my own body. I knew I was a woman, but both society and my family were so fixated on making me into a man. I grew my hair, and they’d cut it off. I picked out my clothes, and they got returned. I tried to make friends with the girls, and we were pressured to kiss. Do you know what that’s like, Markus? When I was crushing on the high school football players, they were busy calling me “faggot” and leaving me in lockers for eight hours at a time. The teachers wouldn’t find me until after dismissal, because they were embarrassed to help me. When I was eighteen and decided to go through with reconstructive surgery - the only person willing to help me was my boyfriend, Dante. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be a loyal boyfriend or the neighborhood hustler, so I wound up addicted to both his crack supply and him. When money got tight, he sold me for a few dollars, and when his side girl got pregnant; he left me on the corner to fend for myself. Years later, I got my surgery, I got clean from drugs, and I earned male attention but only behind closed doors. They’ll eat my pussy just like they used to suck my dick; but the next day it’s an awkward conversation about how “this won’t work” and “can we keep last night between us?” What do I do, Markus? I’ve taken enough estrogen shots to where I couldn’t look masculine if I tried. My voice is too high, my face is too soft, and there’s a vagina between my legs! Not to mention my personality is all woman, all the time. Do I get a buzz cut and go back to being Simon, just so the local department store can hire me as their hyper-gay cashier? Or, do I go back to the block, and sell myself for $50 until a condom is forgotten; and I contract HIV? You’re a straight, white male. You guys run society. Tell me, as their representative. What do I do, Markus?”

“Simone, I understand your frustration; and I have nothing but love for you as a friend. But, you know I have about as much to do with the political white agenda as I do with country music and pickup trucks. Please, spare me the insults.”

“I’m sorry,” she said between tears. “This isn’t your fault, and you don’t deserve the blame. You’re my roommate, my best friend, and the closest one to understanding me; I know. It’s just a cold, sick World that we live in. And, I question everyday exactly what role I’m supposed to play within it.”

“I used to question the same thing when I blew cocaine up my nostrils; and most recently, when I found myself inside the body of an alcoholic whore. But, at some point we have to realize that our vices and differences don’t dictate our future, Simone. My problems might be self-created, and yours might be circumstantial. But, we’re as free as we’re willing to be as long as we don’t hold ourselves back any longer.”

“Thank you Markus. Also, the next time you refer to a woman that you willingly sleep with a ‘whore’ - I’m going to punch you in the throat,” she cackled, as a slight smile appeared on her face.

“Sorry, you’re right.”

“As usual. But, anyway, speaking of women, what happened with you and Mrs. Marley last night?”

“Who?”

“Um, the one with the dreadlocks that you abandoned all of your friends for! We left an hour later and you two were still chatting away like a married couple.”

As I summarized the previous night to Simone, I felt myself reliving all the excitement and newfound interest I had experienced. After sharing a variety of gossip, laughs, and self-deprecating humor; I decided that I couldn’t allow another minute to pass. I grabbed my laptop and messaged Serenity eagerly.

CHAPTER NINE

SERENITY DAVIS

I received my first correspondence from Markus Glenn at 2:59 on a boring work day, as I bounced between my social media profile and editing a boring article about “Bring Your Pet to Work Day.” Although he simply re-affirmed the great time I already knew we’d had; something about his choice of words left me with an indescribable tingle. After exchanging small talk, he invited me to a neo-soul concert later that night at a venue I’d never heard of. Without thought, I agreed; and my excitement carried me through my work shift blissfully.

It was seven o’ clock when I met Markus outside a lush supper club as he waved at me from a line of eager concert goers. I found the scenario bizarre; from the old-timey décor of the venue, to the fact I’d never heard of the artist, to the fact he seemed so comfortable being the only white person at a clearly upscale black event. It was then I noticed that Markus Glenn was anything but “predictable,” and my feelings for him truly began to grow.

After excessive delay, we were seated stage-side right at a quaint table for two. White women dressed in gender-defying bowties brought us bread baskets and water, while a Mexican man with too much hair pomade meticulously took our drink and meal orders. Middle-aged couples surrounded us, soft conversation filled the place, and a part of me wondered what the Hell all this was for. Eventually, I had to break my poker face.

“Markus, this is great and all, but what are we doing here? I told you my situation; I’m a divorcee with unaddressed abuse issues. If you want sex, we can have that conversation somewhere else. You’re wining and dining me like I’m your date.”

“This is a date, isn’t it?” he asked, nonchalantly breaking a piece of pumpernickel bread and buttering it as if he hadn’t heard me.

“What is your motive here? I’m broken. Damaged goods. What the Hell does a poet who hangs out at supper clubs possibly want with an abused Muslim wife?”

“That’s a lot of labels you’re throwing around, Serenity. I’m looking at our table, and all I see is a beautiful woman enjoying herself with an interested man. Is that so sinful?”

My mind wanted to argue further, but I felt emotionally disarmed. I leaned back in my chair, smirked, and cut my eyes to the afro-puff woman that had sauntered on stage.

“How are y’all doing tonight? Welcome to Berman’s Supper & Vibe! Well, as you know, you all came on a very special night! Our headliner tonight is a multi-award winning, five-album-releasing, World touring artist…”

As her introduction rambled on predictably, my mind sauntered off to other places. I wondered where my ex-husband was, and if I was wrong to be in this place with another man so soon. Was I being an unfaithful wife? Should I have given things a chance to reconcile? Was I jeopardizing my safety by going out with a virtual stranger? As my fingers snapped to the music, and my lips pursed into a smile; I felt my anxiety take me to places unknown. Although everything seemed physically perfect at that moment, a part of me feared that it was all too good to be true.