Page 41 of Cillian

“But don't worry. I don't regret my brother's decision to do business with your father, and I don't regret the pleasure of meeting you.” I interlocked my fingers in hers, her small hands a fraction of mine.

“I hope that answers your question. Now that it’s out of the way, I realized there are some common things that I don't know about you. I want to know about the things you enjoy. Where you went to school. What kind of music do you listen to? I want to know everything about you. Even if you don't think it's important.”

“Everything?” she questioned.

“Everything!” She pursed her lips to the side, tracing the shape of my eyebrows with her delicate fingertips.

“Well, I like a lot of things…”

“Starting with?”

“Fine! I like swimming.”

“Nice! Good excuse to see you in a swimsuit.”

“Cillian!” I laughed.

“What else, baby?”

“Hmmm…I guess I really like pictures.” As someone who ran a movie theater, hearing that she liked pictures would be an easy way to surprise her.

“Oh yeah, what kind of pictures?” Her face lit up at the chance to share. I was a simple man, and I was learning that I didn't have a simple girl. Whereas I could have fun at home making love to her all day, the things she liked, would take us outside more often. I suppose I was going to have to change a few things about myself to keep her happy and fulfilled.

“I don't know, maybe musicals?”

“Musicals?” I questioned. “You like musicals? Which ones do you like the most?” She giggled.

“Anything with Ginger Rogers or Rita Hayworth. I like some race films, but the Colored actresses don't get to be as glamorous and as the ones that star in musicals.”

“You know what I think?”

“What is that?”

“I think none of those actresses are as pretty as you.”

“Stop it,” she pushed away.

“I’m serious!” I said, pulling her closer. “Perhaps this is a daft question, but what kind of music do you like?” She distorted her face, lost in thought, her answer falling under a few of my faves too.

“I guess I like swing and jazz, but I love rhythm and blues.”

“Heh, I figured you'd say that because Blacks are so good at playing and dancing. That's the only kind of music I like here in America.” Her face soured.

“You know, I don't like it when you make blank racist statements like that.” This time my face soured.

“Is it racist to say Coloreds have good music and are good dancers?”

“No, it's racist to assume something about an entire group of people based on skin color. Not everyone thinks like I do, and not everyone likes what I like. Some of us like country music. Some of us like what’s popular. And trust me when I say this, not all of us can play an instrument or can dance. That's like me saying just because you're Irish, that all you do is drink.”

“That is all I do,” I said, teasing, but when she didn’t join me in laughter, I toned it down.

“I guess I always thought of it as a compliment. The Black lads in the pictures, everyone wants to be like them. The dress spiffy and they talk cool.”

“Okay, well, dressing well and speaking cool are one thing but would you want to be a Black man?” It felt like a trick question, one that had the potential to get me in trouble and truthfully, I just didn't know an answer that wouldn’t offend her.

“No, I suppose I wouldn't. But only because I love being Irish. Everything was going so well until I said that. Queenie, are you mad at me? Hmm?” I laid my chin into her lap, pouting my lips.

“Cillian, of course not. It's just easy to forget that we're different sometimes. And it's okay to make mistakes so long as we learn from them.

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