We live together in a small studio in Chelsea, where we cook dinners and take showers.
We ask each other about dessert options and call each other good-looking even though we have gained weight.
He told me that he had gotten out of a 10-year relationship with the girl he thought he would marry and I told him that I had spent two years alone finding myself.
The match wasn’t ideal, but we took to each other like people end up doing when left in a room alone.
We were two people of color, the passive transgression, but the responsibility of leaving our races still clung onto our chests.It didn’t feel like love at first, more like companionship at our all-time lows.We were open with each other; he had been warned to stay away from black girls, and I was advised to not date men of color.Our family is a classic case of women and the black men who left them versus the white men who stayed.I remember being 6 and slapping my white uncle in the face to figure out why his face turned bloodred.