Page 24 of Siren

EIGHT

We ended up at Zamari, a Black-owned bistro in East Liberty.

The walls glowed with a slow gold burn, jazz trailing low like a lover’s breath across skin. Thicktablecloths, soft lighting, waitstaff dressed in black like stagehands letting the scene unfold on its own.

The maître d’ led us to a back corner where the shadows curled, and I exhaled when I saw how the table was set—Amaya and Amir already slipping into one side of the booth, knee to knee, a bottle of red between them like it had been waiting.

Taraj gestured for me to slide in first, then moved in next to me. The intimacy of our closeness reminded me of us moving through the gallery, steps in lockstep. Our energy dancing. But this time it burned hotter.

No distractions. No labels or handlers. No rehearsed pitch hovering in the air.

Just him.

And the light caught him like it wanted to—deep brown skin gleaming at the cheekbones, lips full and relaxed, eyes low but aware. Present.

He watched me. Not constantly. But when he did, I felt it.

We placed our orders. I asked for the halibut and coconut grits. He went with oxtails over mashed potatoes. Amaya and Amir shared a few tapas—comfortably, like they’d done it a hundred times.

Their rhythm made me ache a little.

They weren’t performative. There was no need to prove anything.

I liked her instantly. The calm in her voice. The ease of her presence. But more than that—I liked what they were. How they took up space together without crowding the room.

Taraj’s voice pulled me back into the conversation. He was talking about a mix he’d lost on an old laptop, and Amaya was laughing—this soft, caught-off-guard sound—and I found myself leaning in, wanting more of it.

More of them. More of… him.

I asked, “What about y’all?”

Amaya paused. “Whatabout us?”

“How did you… become you?”

The way she looked at Amir softened something in the air. Even the candlelight shifted.

“It started slow,” she said. “Friendship. Distance. Circumstance. I used to think he wasn’t ready.”

“I wasn’t,” Amir said, without hesitation.

“But I wasn’t honest either,” Amaya added. “About what I wanted. About what scared me.”

Her hand slid into his under the table. I saw the slight shift in their arms. Quiet. Certain.

“I said no to him for a long time. And then one day…” She met his gaze again. “He asked me to say yes. Fully. No hesitation.”

My smile came easy. But inside… something tugged.

That kind of intimacy—that choosing, over and over, without shame or question—I’d always wanted it. Dreamed it. Wrote it into my songs. But watching it in real time did something different. It scraped at the surface of something I didn’t even realize was tender.

I held that ache quietly. Let it move in the background.

The food arrived and helped shift the mood. My halibut was buttery and perfect, resting over the silkiest grits I’d ever tasted. I closed my eyes, let the flavor hit, and let out a small, irreverent sound.

“Lord,” I muttered. “This might be better than the session.”

The table laughed. Even Taraj. And in that warmth, I felt myself exhale. For real this time.

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