Page 51 of Cillian

“Yeah, listen to.” I interrupted. “But there's a reason you never see me dance to it.” I had my own culture, my own way of dancing and rhythm that I didn’t think compared to anything anyone around me was doing.

She grabbed my hand, pulling my reluctant body to the dance floor with a look of determination in her eye. “Well, Mr. Cillian Sullivan. Let me explain the difference between your folk and my folk.”

Tapping a man on the shoulder, lifting on her heels to whisper something to him. The man smiled wide, bringing his hands together in an enthusiastic clap. “Alright, now. Looks like we got a live one tonight. Your wife here said you could use a few pointers on how to move to this?” His tone a little bit too friendly to be strangers.

“Sorry to trouble you. Just my wife wants to dance and I don’t want to risk stepping on her pretty shoes.”

“Sounds like you got an accent.” He asked as a question.

“I’m Irish.”

“You said you Irish, now? Hell, I’m a Murphy, I might got a little Irish in me, too.” He joked as we shared in a laugh together. From the looks of him, I highly doubted it, but you never knew.

The steps we went over seemed easy enough broken down. There was a level of appreciation there for having the time and patience to take six minutes out of their day to share it with me.

“Hey, you catch on fast, Dublin?—”

“I ain’t from no fucking Dublin,” I interrupted. “Cork through and through.”

“Shit, it’s all seem the same to me. But I was just about to say, you catch on quick. Might as well just call you Colored.” He passed off as another joke. At least I think it was a joke, because he was smiling. As I thanked him, I pulled Queenie to the crowded dance floor, praying I didn’t make my wife look stupid.

“He's right. You are a fast learner.” She flirted, as I spun her around and pulled her back and close to me.

“Only because I wanted to dance with you.” I flirted back, taking the moment to ignore what was happening around us and just focus on the fun I had with her. I had to admit, I loved her having a good time. Happy and free, entirely comfortable.

Seemed like we danced to no end. It was so much fun, everyone had to be kicked out before anyone wanted to leave. Walking back to the car, I sensed no one would have any trouble sleeping.

“Tonight was really fun. Thank you for suggesting it to me,” opening her car door and hoping in. “I admit, I was a bit uneasy at first—but not because everyone was Black—but because I didn’t know anyone, and no one knew me.”

Starting up the car, I took her hand in mine, relying on my other hand to drive. “I’m sure that’s how you feel all the time, only worse.”

“I know it’s hard for you to understand. I’m sure you don’t go looking for places where everyone doesn’t look like you. But Black people, we don’t have that privilege. Even though we’re born here, we’re still treated like outsiders.”

“I definitely didn’t feel like an outsider tonight,” I shamefully admitted.

“That’s because we’re so used to that treatment, it’s not in our ministry to do others that way. Sometimes, I wish your people could take a page out of our book.”

I brought her hand to mind to kiss. “Americans ain't always my people. You’d be surprised how they treat the Irish, probably wouldn’t even need to be gangsters if they’d given us fair opportunities. We just stick together, otherwise we wouldn’t have anything to show for leaving the old country.”

“But you’re still white. Half the reason why I wanted to come here, was to show you the difference. Black folk are going to be skeptical of you, just because of the way you look. They’re going to be weary of you, not trusting of you, because of how you look. When you’re around me, white people are going to treat you like me because you’re with me. Black people are maybe going to ask you to back up. But white people might get violent, just because they don’t like seeing me with you. It’s a big difference. And I love you. I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she admitted with pain and concern in her eyes.

I understood her stance. I’ve never had to think about being white, but she always has to consider being Black. I didn’t want her to feel like she was losing herself to be with me, so I knew looking forward, I was going to have to make more effort in her being in more environments where she felt just as comfortable as I did.

“Thing is, I didn’t take a thousand beatings from my father to sit down and let someone talk down to me or my wife. I’m not going to let someone sit there and shrink my wife right in front of me, white or Black. You’ve got a big presence. Bigger than you see yourself. I just want to make sure it gets seen. Gets heard. I respect you too much to have a silent wife.” As I kissed her hand again, blushing at her kissing my cheek.

“Again, tonight was fun. Moving forward, we need to do this more often.”

***

“You're getting really good at this.” Queenie complimented, as I raked my conditioner-soaked fingertips through the length of her hair. We sat in the washtub, her back to my chest, as I carefully detangled her coils the way she taught me.

“Have to. It’s the thing you spend the most time on. Plus, it’s my favorite thing about you,” I flirted.

“I thought you said it was my behind,” she challenged, as I rested my chin on her saturated head.

“That too. But your hair is a close second. Lean back for me.” Queenie tilted her head back, allowing me to pour a bowl of clean water to rinse it soft and clean.

“I’m sure one day, you’re going to find this to be a nuisance.” I couldn’t disagree more.

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