“Well if I did leave an earring, you can toss it. I never wear my good shit here.”
Okay, so it was a good exit line and I was proud of it, but I’d jinxed myself. As I did my ritualistic double-checking of my bag （I couldn’t leave any evidence of my presence） as the door to My Guy’s flat clicked behind me, I realized I’d left my lip gloss. Shit. Actually, it was Aminah’s lip gloss that she told me to look after in my bag and I’d forgotten to return a month ago. Despite the Best Friend Bylaws stating that there is a statute of limitations in relation to makeup reclamation, I’m pretty sure she would be pissed at where I’d left it. She would rather I’d flushed it down the toilet. After peeing on it. I couldn’t have left it. I rooted for it as I absentmindedly walked toward the lift, praying that God would forgive me for my recent transgressions. （Did it help that My Guy had a tattoo that said In God We Trust on his chest? In cursive, above a Tupac quote: “Real eyes realize real lies.”）
I hit a very firm, warm wall, my nose squishing against the soft cotton of a slate-gray shirt. “Shit! My bad—”
“Nah, it’s cool, don’t—”
The voice was low and smooth, thick like honey sunk to the bottom of a tumbler of cognac. I looked up—but not enough because I found I’d only reached his nose: it travelled down his face narrowly and then curved out, drastically, majestically. I mean, it was quite enough to look at, but I thought I’d try again. I tilted my head a little further up till I hit black quartz gazing at me, glinting.
He was looking at me like he knew me. That was weird for a number of reasons, including but not limited to the fact that I knew everybody in the Black caucus of Whitewell College. I knew each clique, subgroup, and faction and, granted, it was the third week of second year so there was a bunch of new people, but even so. I flicked through my mental Rolodex of mandem and came up blank. He wasn’t part of the Nigerian Princes （sons of Nigerian politicians）， the Faux-Roadmen （studying pharmacy at a redbrick university is not the same as dealing, sweetie）， the Future Shiny Suits Who Read （a group that could include any of the above, but who usually studied something finance-related, sought to work in the city, wanted an educated girl who knew her place; quite fine and included My Guy）。 Nor the Water into Wine （at the clerb） Bible Study Boys . . . nothing. Looking at his face seemed to actively contribute to my mind blankness, which was bizarre because my mind was never blank unless made purposely so. Like when My Guy was trying to talk to me about The 48 Laws of Power one time.
He blinked and cleared his throat even though when I heard his voice the first time it didn’t sound like it could get any clearer. “Uh, don’t sweat it—”
Funny he should mention that, because I was. My skin was tingling. This was intriguing. I didn’t really sweat, and when I did （like the time I went on the elliptical for two hours while watching Beychella on my phone）， it was like this, a slight prickle.
“I don’t sweat. But thanks.” I started to move past him to the lift, encouraging him to do the same, toward his destination, his destiny, away from me, when he stopped suddenly, turned around, his dark brows furrowed.
“Uh, I’m sorry, I just . . . did you say you don’t sweat?”
I cast a gaze across the hall, partly to obnoxiously demonstrate the fact that no one else could have just said that and also to double-check that nobody was coming out or coming in. I knew every Blackwellian who lived on My Guy’s floor and timed my visit knowing that two of them were at Bible study, one at football, and another at a friend’s birthday dinner. There was nobody. I wouldn’t be seen. I looked back at him, hitched a shoulder upward.
“Yeah. Why?”
He nodded, his eyes squinting, concentrating the light, the corner of his plush mouth quirking up. “Sweating is a regular biological human function.”
“What’s your point?”
“So, you’re saying you’re not a regular human.”
I smiled, sliding my head to the side. “Do I look like a regular human to you?” Trick question. He would stumble or leave. Stumble and leave. It was fun, tangling my words around their ankles, without them realizing, and then watching them trip.
He inhaled deeply, like he was considering the question. He stepped back a little and assessed me, flicking a quick gaze down me that felt like he was striking a match against my body. Something flared under my skin. His eyes rose to meet mine again.
“Nah. Definitely not regular.” He smiled, and my pulse stuttered. “Just not used to seeing another superhuman about, so had to double-check. It makes me feel less lonely, so thank you.”