Kitten

2. Amahle

There are a few things I'd do over in my life if I could go back in time. The first thing, I'd never have come to America, no matter the amazing opportunities that came with it.

Second, I would have been brave enough to live in my sexuality and be with the girl I fell so deeply in love with in secondary school. Third and by far my biggest regret so far, I would have never gotten married to an American investor who only cares about his image just to free my father of his debt.
I found myself thinking that daily over the last twenty years. At fourteen, when I was sold and married off, my husband was in his early thirties. And now at forty-two, Patrick is sixty-five and as repulsive as the day I married him.

I know, as many friends of mine always ask when they notice the dullness in my eyes lately, why do I stay?

Patrick is the only man I've known on an intimate level. The only person, aside from one, that trusted my body with and sleeping around isn't something that I take lightly. I am nothing if not more than a faithful woman.
Without my husband, I would not have a thriving business and my name in the architectural world would be nonexistent. Just as he's invested in hundreds of businesses, he invested in mine and is the reason I can easily afford a $1,200 salad.

Because of him, and my talent of course, if I wanted to retire before fifty, my company would still be able to continue to thrive. So I couldn't leave him. Not when all my success is because of him.

Plus, he isn't too bad, if sex, quality time, and affection are not your top love languages.

"Hey honey, you're working late." Patrick hums and wheels himself towards the large oak desk I've been working at the last few hours.

Glancing at the time, I remove my glasses and sigh. More time has passed than I anticipated with me being so wrapped up in my latest job.

"You're right, I'm sorry time got away from me." I apologize and close the folder with the new blueprints I've been working on all day.

A new project came to my desk a few days ago and now that I have all the required measurements, I've been coming up with a modern but Victorian kind of feel for an upscale apartment complex for the better half of my day.

"Are you ready for a meal?" I ask as I pluck the lint from the black blazer he used to wear daily when he taught at the University years ago.

"Roasted duck sounds nice. Are you in the mood for duck?"
I smiled a tight-lipped grin and nodded as I began pushing him into the library where he spends most of his time when he isn't out searching for the next business to bring to life with the billions of dollars in his bank account.

So I make roasted duck, asparagus, and mashed potatoes instead of asking our in-house chef because Patrick liked it when I cooked for him.
After dinner, I retire back to my office and work until it's late. When enough time passes and I know Patrick is fast asleep, I draw myself a nice hot bath and soak for an hour.

With a glass of white wine in my hand, I swipe across the screen of my iPad and sigh. I sip and continue to read through a news article. Somewhere in DC, another young black girl is missing and the more I read through it, the sicker I began to feel.

Missing black children are a big trigger for me. Being as I was one myself, seeing and reading about it is enough to bring me to my knees in agony.

I turn the iPad off and climb out of the tub. Once I finish rubbing my body down in oil, I take the time to stare at my curvaceous body. Even in my youth, my body was a temple and I treated it as such.

As much time as I spend doing yoga and in the in-home gym, I'm satisfied with the way I fill out my clothes. The way they hug my hips may be the only way I'm being touched but I love my appearance nevertheless.
Forty-two never looked so good on another woman, if you asked me.