Memphis shrugged. “Whatever suits you.”
Fresh heat licked up Theta’s fingers. Her heart beat wildly. “I… I think I’m gonna save it for later, like a present,” Theta said, slipping the note under her beaded handbag. She felt like crying, but she was afraid that if she did, her hands would really start acting up again. So she kept her eyes trained on the people dancing until they were a pretty blur of color.
Memphis tugged at his collar. His special anniversary date seemed to be going off the rails, fast. He watched as a group of white fellas escorted their dates to the floor, laughing and carefree. Every night, they came up by the carload to catch the action, then took it back with them downtown, where it was reborn in Broadway shows, swank clubs, and hotels that catered to whites only. It burned Memphis up that they could come here to his neighborhood, to his clubs with their dates, and it was no trouble at all. They expected to be able to do it, no questions asked. But Memphis had to be careful with his own girl in his own home.
Under the table, out of sight, Memphis laced his fingers with Theta’s, enjoying the silky softness of her glove. Just to stroke her palm was a thrill. A couple of tables away, a group of Harlem high-hats stared with disapproval. Well, damn them. Damn the white fellas making the rules and the good people of Harlem for playing by them.
Memphis grasped Theta’s fingers more solidly. Theta gasped.
“Trust me,” Memphis said, and he brought their clasped knot of fingers out of hiding, resting them on the smooth sea of tablecloth. He stared back at his own people a few tables over, challenging them. Finally, they looked away, and Memphis enjoyed the thrill of winning: Don’t tell me how to live. The orchestra launched into another dance number. More dancers swarmed toward the already crowded floor. A white couple passed by, their hands joined like Theta’s and Memphis’s. The girl, a blond in a sparkling rhinestone headband, looked from Theta to Memphis and back again. The girl might’ve taken a lot of care to dress the part of a sophisticate, but her expression was the truest thing she wore, and it was one of naked contempt. She paused for just a second to let her judgment settle on them.
Theta stared back. She didn’t look happy. Memphis held Theta’s hand firmly, letting her know that everything was jake. He was with her. Her hand was warm in his, very warm, and suddenly, Theta’s expression changed from challenge to fear. Rabbit-quick, she yanked her hand away. The blond’s smile was smug as she and her fella ran to join the happy dancers. Memphis felt it all like a stab to his gut.
Theta jumped up quickly, bracing herself on the table and nearly knocking over her drink as she did. She grabbed her purse. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling so good, Poet. I-I gotta go home,” she said and ran from the club.
“Theta! Theta!” Memphis shouted. He started after her but was stopped by the waiter.
“Your bill, sir.”
“I’ll be right back, I swear!”
“I’ve heard that one before,” the waiter said, unmoved, and Memphis felt doubly humiliated by Theta’s abrupt departure and this man’s suspicion. Nobody was stopping white patrons at the door. Everybody was watching as Memphis reached into his wallet and dropped some bills on the silver tray.
“Happy?” he said.
The special night hung in tatters. To top things off, Theta had left the poem he’d worked so hard on. Angrily, Memphis grabbed the paper and stalked away, never noticing the faint outline of two singed handprints on the edge of the white tablecloth.