Melvin
He is on his way to the Southside where open legs and rosy pink pussy lips are craving his girth.
and then an hours time some girl will close her eyes with the sweetest satisfaction,having pleased another woman's man. She will swell with fever and lust and pride, imagining Viola at home unaware.
But she is not unaware.
In fact she tells me about his indiscretions just as easily as she tells me about the Sunday sermon. She is with him for comfort, not necessity.
This control, this power, is what I envy, but hold too sacred to imitate. For she is lyrical in her thoughts and passive to the expectations of monogamy and its ideals.
Melvin was hers; he did not belong to the pair of legs on the Southside. They did not cut his hair, They did not pack his lunches, they did not argue over condoms, coffee pots and church picnics.
she did.
That was ownership, The pair of Southside legs would never taste pure possession nor ever know the heaviness of Melvin's head on her breasts nor the roughness of his cheek beneath her hand.