The Perfect Love Song

Fiction by Christina Marable

Look. No matter what my depressed older sister Naomi said, I’m no self-centered ho. She’s just jealous that despite my server job and single-mother status, I’ve always got a man, while she’s struggling with the one body she dumped, but what she doesn’t realize is this: men are the same. There’s the obvious dogs like my daughter’s father Rashad, who is at least honest about his ways, and the Good Black Men like my man Latiff, with likely covert dirt. She claimed to want what’s best, but men are the struggle love songs of Mary J. Blige, Phylis Hyman, and Shirley Murdoch – the voices that echoed our Dad’s prison phone calls and our mom’s alcoholism. 

​To cheer Naomi up, we attended the local artist’s walk with my daughter Sasha and Latiff. In our summer Oakland hoodies, we split cupcakes and laughed at the optimistic hipster transplants with their vibrant purple hair and Goapele-style faux locs, despite for cool points in this dangerous city. Latiff’s Southern hospitality proved awkward as he dapped every brother he saw. I shook my head and remembered how we’d met during the lunch rush hour and he’d handed me a $50 tip, with a note that I should be served in steakhouses, not waitressing in them. Freckled and light-skinned with a reddish-brown fade, he wasn’t my type - but when he covered bills and we slowly dragged before bed, his hips promised ecstasy in the music. I wanted the night to end so I could call him Daddy, but Sasha broke my thoughts. 

“Aunty Naomi,” Sasha said, “Last week, I made Latiff a mug. Mommy, will Latiff be my new Daddy?” 

I liked the frosting off a red velvet cupcake. “You already have a Daddy,” I said. 

“He’s over the house so much, can’t I have two Daddies?” Sasha asked. 

“Will you keep me?” Latiff asked. “My job’s going to transfer me to The City. Come with me.” 

Naomi and Sasha dropped their mouths. Living together is the Black marriage, but I preferred freedom. I was open to preferring something different after what dad put mom through. 

“Let’s talk later,” I said, aiming to compromise. 

Sasha’s face broke into a sweet smile. “Daddy!” she shouted. 

She darted through the crowded street to Rashad, who scooped her up in his muscular arms. He had two passions: working to get money and pussy. Public appearances impressed new days, including that high-yellow, big-booty heifer with a tacky lace front that was with him tonight. Fresh in baggy jeans, an oversized jersey, and Tims, he carried Sasha like she was a cloud. Sasha copied me, but possessed Rashad’s smooth mahogany complexion and slanted deep-brown eyes. 

“Ashanti,” Rashad began. “Why’s my princess out here?” 

“She’s got back up,” Latiff replied. 

“Your mother didn’t tell me about him,” Rashad said to Sasha. 

“Need to know basis,” I replied. I waved to his date, but she swatted it off. 

“Everyone needs rims, and you need money,” Rashad replied. 

Latiff stepped in. “We’re cool, right?” 

“You busy tomorrow?” Rashad asked me. 

“Call.” 

Rashad strolled away, finally holding his date’s hand. I shook my head. The same cycle: arguments, embarrassment, entrapment, but he’ll always have songs in my soundtrack. Latiff kissed me on the cheek. 

“I love you,” he said. 

Naomi stared at her cupcake. “Can love sustain us?” She asked about our present and past. 




The next morning, I turned on Cartoon Network and plopped Sasha onto a pillow as she dug into an oversized bowl of Cap’N’Crunch while I braided her hair. Sasha was too distracted from Naomi’s departure to notice her Daddy’s phone call. When she picked it up, she chatted about her eight-year-old life with the excitement of an IG news reel: her old second-grade teacher who got a new set of tires, her third-grade teacher who just got a new car, and her newest Barbie dream house that Latiff just bought for her. 

“Mommy colors all my dolls brown,” she added. 

“Let me talk to your momma real quick,” he replied. 

Sasha handed the phone to me. Latiff awoke from his dead-man slumber in a wifebeater and sweatpants, and poured a cup of coffee. 

“How are you?” he asked me. 

“Fine, and you?” I replied. 

“Good. How’d you sleep?” he asked. 

“Alone,” I lied. I stuck my tongue out at Latiff. 

“Want to grab McDonald’s today? I’ve got a gift for my princess.” 

“Yay!” Sasha shouted. 

“I’ll come through at two,” Rashad said. He hung up. 

Latiff continued to sip his coffee in his Color Me Mine mug. “Guess Baby Daddy’s on the agenda?” 

I frowned. “Don’t say it like that.” 

“Moms asked if a Bay Area girl has stolen my heart yet.”

“And what did you tell her?” I asked. 

“She’s working on it. You know I care about you, and eventually I want to get married. But I’ve got this job transfer. When are we moving in together?” 

I sighed and stopped combing Sasha’s hair. “East Oakland’s my home. The City’s another country. Naomi needs me here, and I want Sasha to have the same childhood that I had. It’s a lot to think about moving in.” 

“Is it because he’s here too?” Latiff motioned to the cell phone. 

“Don’t bring him up.”

“Daddy!” Sasha said. Then, she looked at Latiff. “I’ll always love you.”

That statement knotted in my stomach. I didn’t want to think about Sasha loving someone else, but I refused to show that. “Stay out of grown folks' business and watch your cartoons.” Then, I angled her head back toward the TV.

“It’s not him. Maybe you won’t get it because you were bored in Mississippi. This is my life, not some adventure.” 

“Then what’s your adventure?” He asked. “Look, I’m not trying to control you. Circumstances move quickly. We could always move forward or move back. We can’t stay steady like this, though.”

After I finished Sasha’s hair, I told her to play outside. Then, I led Latiff by the hand to my bedroom, where I promised my body to his, drowned out any questions and jealousy in my pillow with Sade in the background. We showered and dressed, and I kissed him goodbye before Rashad pulled up. He looked fresh as always and smelled like Old Spice – which my teen hormones worshipped. 

Temperamental Oakland was a sun-kissed, breezy, clear sky, the days I’d never trade for the foggy City. We ate at McDonald’s on Hegenberger on a violence-free day as Sasha slid into the colorful plastic balls of the indoor playground. Rashad ignored the height restrictions and slid down the slides. Chased her around, scooped her up, lifted and spun her as she laughed, delirious with happiness only a daughter knows from her father. 

“Daddy made me fly!” she shouted. 

As I sipped on my Crush Grape soda, I understood Naomi a little more. Daddies and their daughters are the purest true love; women like me spend their entire lives chasing that high, only to find the lows in our soundtracks. 

After dark, we returned home and ate chicken fingers with French fries like a family. I wanted Sasha to have as many of these moments to move through the rest of her difficult life; it was why I let her ramble about anything she wanted; I never tired of her voice and hoped she’d always use it. Rashad finally interrupted her to talk about how I’d wanted to take music lessons but couldn’t; my mother had refused because we weren’t white. As I stared at Sasha’s long fingers, I thought about the guitar she’d wanted. He returned from the car with a pink guitar. 

“Daddy’s going to play you a song,” he said. 

His large athletic frame was too big for a child’s instrument. He played an impromptu, mid-tempo song. She danced her interpretation to the music, moving her slender arms across her beautiful face. I was grateful we’d created these memories for her once she traveled throughout life. 

“I love you, Daddy,” she said. 

“You rusty,” I replied as I put away the dishes. 

He leaned back. “Your mother’s a hater.”

“Can I show Daddy Latiff’s mug?” she asked.

“I’ll drink beer out of it,” he said. 

“No,” I replied to them both.

Sasha snuggled next to Rashad. “We might move to The City.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “You ain’t going nowhere.”

“The City’s not far,” I replied. 

“Honey,” Rashad said to Sasha. “Let’s get you ready for bed. I need to talk to your Momma.”

He drew Sasha a bath and turned on the TV in her room. Once she announced she was finished, he gave her cocoa butter and a pair of Princess Tiana pajamas. I was nervous. I opened two beers and ignored my cell phone. I needed to breathe. 

He sat down in the chair next to the TV. “The City? With all them white folks?” 

“It’s stability and a live-in father figure. You can always get Sasha whenever you want.”

“You sound like your bougie sister.”

“I don’t ask you about them hoochies.”

“Because they’re not around our daughter.”

I took a deep breath and a long sip, uncertain of my next move. I almost admitted my high school truth – that we could’ve gone from Hood to Huxtables, but that’s not who we were. We were more married to freedom than stability; that Sasha was our creation of compromise. But I refused. 

“She deserves more than Skyline High,” I said. 

“You were a bad-ass freshman spying on me at Skyline.” He grabbed Sasha’s guitar. “Let me play something for you.” 

We laughed. I remembered when I’d skipped boring-ass English. I spotted Rashad in music class on a guitar solo and became infatuated with the obvious – muscular frame, latest J’s, flawless chocolate skin, waves on point – but my heart stirred and womb ached as I listened to him play. That slow melody danced in my spirit and captured the sorrow within me. As he had now. 

His voice quivered. “Ashanti, I’ll always love you,” he said. 
 
I led him to the bedroom we’d never share. We made out like our first time but undressed silently like adults. Our bodies made the perfect love song. He laid me on my stomach and stroked me as only he could. I wrapped my hands around his arms and let it slip: “I want to have your baby.”




Oakland’s icy summer descended into early autumn bliss. A cornucopia of sienna, golden, and hunter-green leaves danced on concrete. The smell of sulfuric eggs and steak churned my stomach at work, and I rushed to the bathroom to vomit. I purchased two pregnancy tests and struggled to help Sasha with her Math homework as I waited for an eternity of five minutes. Two pink lines. 

I called Naomi. She greeted me with a smile on her beautiful brown face and wore matching pink pajamas with Sasha for a somber slumber party. “Twins” she announced as she handed me cans of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, crackers, and 7UP. Sasha changed into her pajamas as Naomi dumped the soup into a pot. I chucked the pregnancy test at her. 

“Whose is it?” she asked and smirked. 

There wasn’t enough ceiling for me to roll my eyes at. “Stop being smart. I don’t know.” 

She shook her head. “I thought you were trying something different. Don’t you love Latiff? He’s offered you a better life.”

“I don’t know. I know who I am here. How come you didn’t ask if I loved Rashad?” 

“Because you keep sleeping with him, despite y’alls affairs. I don’t know why you love him.”

“I’ll always love him as Sasha’s father.” 

“More than that?” 

I shook my head. She didn’t get it. To Naomi, love is a religion that offered immortality, but my bond with Rashad was based on understanding. Not love. 

“You’ve read too much Terry McMillan,” I said. 

Naomi poured a glass of beer. “I’m going to let that go. Are you going to tell them?” 

“I’m not telling Rashad shit!” I snapped. 

I grabbed Naomi’s beer for a sip. Junior year, I’d met Rashad in the park after dark and told him I was keeping Sasha before he could toss out, what are you going to do? He demanded how could I ruin his life, betray him, before he stormed off and abandoned me. A car drove by and blared out SWV’s “Anything.” We’d listened to that song the first time in his car. I’d longed for cookouts, skating rinks, and impromptu trips to the white side of Oakland, but those times were over. 

Naomi snatched her beer back and sipped like it was a sour off Lake Merritt. She called Lateef. 

“Babe, I’ve looked at some apartments in the Mission,” he said. 

“This is Naomi,” she replied. “Family meeting. We’ve got to talk to you about something.”

“I’m pregnant,” I said. 

“Damn.” He paused to decode the problem. Concern dripped in his voice. “What do you want to do, Ashanti? I support your choices.” 

I scratched my nose and thought of Sasha’s, so much like Rashad’s. Then, sadness washed over me because I wouldn’t know what this one’s nose looked like. I told a half-truth. “I don’t want any more kids.”

“Set up the clinic date. I’ll cover you and take the day off,” he said. 

Wiser, we prepared for the clinic. Our doctor, a beautiful silver-haired Black woman, explained that more than a third of women had this procedure; there was nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of. Lateef bowed his head in prayer as I took the pill. He’d arranged a telework day to stand vigil through the blood loss, the bathroom trips, the vomiting, and the flu. 

When we were younger, our mom used to say the greatest pain was having us. We stopped her from achieving her unspecified dreams. That wasn’t true. The greatest pain was not knowing. As my body rejected this life, I pondered the sex. Was the creativity, the risk, the pleasure worth this moment? 

Lateef clocked out. He rubbed my feet as I opened the ratched Chinese food. 

“Let’s move to the city,” I said. 

“You need to eat,” he replied. A smirk crossed his face. Like he’d won.




Daylight saving time brought darkness and holidays. Sasha learned how to multiply and divide. Rashad brought his new girlfriend to pick Sasha up, a bald and stunning Mills student with a septum piercing. I quoted Sex and the City. “Your new girl is lovely.”

The winter weather lulled me into a false sense of safety. After the procedure, I saw Lateef as part of my future – Mission mornings, comfort, and compatibility. But that allusion vanished when I packed my overnight bag for his West Oakland apartment. We sipped coffee when I realized that he’d been part of my world, but I wasn’t part of his. Was his world in The City or The South? Or were they just in bed? 

“You were excited last night,” I said. 

“Non-pregnant pussy is the best,” he laughed. I didn’t. 

I tapped my French-manicured fingers in between the web of his hands. Courage built. For the first time, I feared testing a man. I didn’t want him to fail, but if he were, it should be now. 

“Have you paid for one before?” I asked. 

He nodded. “College. Shawty got knocked up. Couldn’t tell her I didn’t want it, so I sold her the galaxy – marriage, house, motherhood, but we had to do it the right way. No shotgun weddings. Told Ma I needed extra money for textbooks. We broke up a month later. Feelings change,” he shrugged. 

I felt hopeless. I would’ve felt better if he’d been the same and I’d been different, but now I was the same and he was different. That self-centered ego. Lateef needed to know he wasn’t different – or that I was different. 

“I’m not sure if the baby was yours,” I said. 

He raised his eyebrow. “Whose could it have been?” 

“Possibly Rashad’s.”

He walked toward me, backing me into a wall. He didn’t hit me, but he pointed his finger into my forehead. “You females are all the same. Cry about a Good Black Man, but you fuck who dogged you out.”

“What about the woman you dogged out?” 

“You don’t know the bitch.” 

I swallowed, afraid. “I’m not calling myself a whore for your ego.” 

“Grow up Ashanti!” he shouted. He pushed me against the wall. 

“You’re worse than Rashad,” I shouted back. 

I picked up my overnight bag, purse, keys, and left. I sprinted to the building’s lobby before I got to my car in the parking lot. I expected some Worldstar drama, to feel sorry, but the adrenaline rushed me to Sasha and Naomi at IHOP towards safety. I sobbed in the IHOP parking lot, wilted over the steering wheel before I collected myself. I needed to be strong for Sasha. 

IHOP was an heirloom of misery that our mother had taken us to on the rare morning off from her maid jobs, or when she’d put money on Dad’s books. When I got to the booth, Sasha hugged me and returned to reading Superfudge. I didn’t realize how tall she’d become. I wanted IHOP to be a fun memory for her when she walked out of my life and forged a life of her own. 

Patsy Cline’s sorrowful voice crooned on the cheap speakers. I felt heartbreak all over again. For young Patsy who died too young, for the emotions that wilted before I came into this life; open fields, cattle, tobacco, cotton, void of life, except for the music of voice and body. 

“I’ve already ordered for us. How are you feeling?” Naomi asked. 

“Exhausted. Lateef and I broke up. He pushed me.” I motioned to Sasha. “She doesn’t need to see that.” 

“You’re part of the problem,” Naomi said. 

“And?” I started. Then, I stopped. We’re all part of the problem, but I saw where she came from. I knew who I was – she was still evolving. Perhaps the evolution I had was to see where I was a part, even if I didn’t stop. 

“Look.” I continued. “There’s someone else if you choose. After this, I may not choose for a while.”

“I wish I felt the same way.” She played with her short locs. “I’ll never get over him.”

Same childhood; her sadness was inside, mine was outside. I wanted to cheer her up. “You’ve got to snap out of this. You’ve gained 15 pounds, stopped wearing makeup, looking like Predator’s little sister. There’s more puppies in the pound.”

“It’s not the same.” 

“Is it because of that night?” 

She took a long sip, remembering her secret shame. “No one cares about safety. What if I’m like this for the rest of my days?” 

The server returned with a Grand Slam for me, pancakes for Sasha, and French toast for Naomi. The server’s gaping walk mirrored our exhaustion. Smart enough to know trouble but not smart enough to bypass it. I cut into my perfect over-easy eggs and watched the yellow yolk spill onto the clean white plate. My body craved peace. 

“I feel you,” I told her. 

Christina Marable

Christina Marable is writer who's been supported by Hurston-Wright and VONA. A Best of the Net Nominee, she's been published in Midnight and Indigo, BULL Literary Journal, and the forthcoming RIZE press. She's currently writing a novel about swing dancers of color. In addition to writing, she likes to dance, travel, and bake vegan goods. Reach out to her at www.philosophyandletters.com. She'd love to hear from you!