Chapter 1

Houston. Midtown. Sunday 7:00 AM.

The sun was finally getting bright enough that Niya was fully awake. Her body was angled towards the window—then she rolled to look at the early morning sun that sifted through the blinds to hide on the back wall. Marcus was sleeping.

Her bonnet was still on the floor from the night before. It’s always on the floor when Marcus is here. She went to her dresser and stepped into her usual sweatpants and TSU t-shirt—the one her college boyfriend had gotten for her. The silk bonnet was last. Sweeping her arm to grab it she pulled the bonnet over her locs then eased into her robe that was laid across her chair. At least the slippers were still in their usual place. Marcus still hadn’t moved.

Niya went to the kitchen and pressed the lever of the electric kettle. She loved this kettle. The morning chamomile tea routine would not be interrupted. Her skin and hair were never right when Marcus was over.

“Why do I always skip my night routine when he’s here” she thought while standing over the sound of the approaching boil. After pouring the water into her usual TSU mug—the heavy diner style that was also from said boyfriend—she powered up a speaker on the counter, grabbed her phone, and started the Sunday morning playlist—Kirk Franklin, Revolution. Enter Marcus.

“Hey Ne, you’re up early. I guess I was tired. Last night just drained me, ha. Maybe you want to come back into bed with me, we’ve got plenty of time before church.”

Niya ignored him.

“Marcus, did you bring your suit? You know how it is; people expect it. All the men dress like that. It looks nice, Marcus. You look nice in a suit.”

“Oh sorry, I didn’t think about it, I have some work clothes in my back seat. I’ll go get those. Totally forgot, next time I’ll have the suit.”

After Marcus stepped out Niya went into the bedroom and pulled on the right-side sliding mirrored door, slamming it against the frame. Definitely not an accident.

Here was the warm olive dress she’d gotten on Thursday. A rare treat. So rare, that there wasn’t another dress in her closet that brought her that level of joy. Monday night she’d spent nearly two hours online, dozens of tabs open, clicking through saved carts and wish lists—then went through her email to see if there were any specials. It always had to be on sale. Why did it always have to be on sale? Does it have to be on sale? Maybe it need not be on sale this time.

She loved the look—full length, color perfectly matched to her skin tone. The long pleats were beautiful. The dress went perfectly with her usual slingback heels.

After pulling the dress from the closet and hanging it on the back of the bathroom door, her body turned back around to face the room. That particle board Ikea bed she’s had for the last seven years. Mama June’s handmaid quilt. The chair on the side of her bed littered with underwear from the night before. The gray walls and beige carpet that were standard in Midtown apartments. The one large light in the middle of the ceiling that Marcus would always flip on when he got out of bed.

“It’s too dark in here” he would call. “Turn on the lamp Marcus” she would respond.

Normally she would’ve flicked it off immediately, but today, it was ignored.