“Where were you? Where were you before now?” she said. Those eyes, large and water-filled, looked up at me and my heart sank. She cried on my shoulder, did more than cry. She wept and it came from a private place, from the very thick of who she was.

She was one of those women—real and down to earth—who conveyed things simply, matter-of-factly. I found her refreshing. Most of my college buddies, they went for the Ivy League, white collar types. The ones who ate canapés and drank Mint Juleps on Martha’s Vineyard. Not me though. I wanted some one who knew themselves, so by the time I came around, I wouldn’t have to guess at it. Those other women, the white collar types, they’re dull and pretentious, definitely not for me.

This one, she’s different in a special kind of way. She’s other-worldly. Right then, right there, I decided that no one in this world would know her like I did, that no one could. I believe that when God made me, he made her. That’s the only way I can explain how she makes me feel the way I feel. I knew that day in the courtyard, in the moment it took to glance her way, that she’d be my lady.

She saved me from myself. Saved me the first time I laid my eyes on her. She could probably tell by looking. She stopped me in my tracks and I wasn’t ashamed. I knew she knew that she had stunned me. I saw her walking that day, and she caught everyone’s attention. They saw what I saw: loveliness and everything beautiful. She wasn’t smiling, until I said something to her, then she beamed as if on cue. There she was, what from afar looked like some regular lady in regular clothes on a regular street on the most irregular day.

That morning I woke up at 5 a.m., no alarm. I lay there a few moments before I sat up, turning the light on. The sky was an unusual color, a kind of purple-blue-grey. The moon was still visible, it was high and bright and orange. I looked around my bedroom at its clean lines and neutral colors.

I knew when I woke up that morning that a miracle or several of them would happen. First, I woke up without the aid of an alarm, and at 5 am no less. I never just wake up, I especially never just wake up at five a.m. I climbed out of bed and that old college football injury didn’t remind me that I was no longer a spring chicken. I felt spry this day, unusually agile. I looked in the mirror before relieving my bladder. I was a little less gray, my salt and pepper looked like more pepper than salt and I was ok with it, it was just too damned early.

Looked good for 43; most folk still thought I was just in my thirties. Went to feed my fish and he was belly up, so I flushed him. His name was Gilligan. I had my usual breakfast of apple juice, bagel and morning news. The sports page was missing, but oh well. I got dressed and my pants hung differently I thought. Maybe I lost a little weight. I looked good, was confident.

I went to work, exchanged the usual pleasantries with my coworkers, got a promotion and an office with a view. Even got my own parking space—about time they show a black man some love around here. And I was thinking how hard it had been, going at it alone. Successful with no one to share it with. I won’t settle though. The little young girls in the office bat their eyes and bend over in front of me, trying to call my attention to either their backs or their fronts. I don’t see them though. “I’m waiting for her,” I thought every day. “She will be here any day now.” I’ve been thinking that for 15 years. Ever since I discovered the woman I had proposed to was not the one for me.

At noon my boss offered to take me to lunch. I declined. I had thinking to do. A good read, a nice book would be fine. And as I approached the Barnes and Noble there she was, it was her. I knew it just by looking. I remembered her from my dreams, only I never saw her face, but I knew still that it was her. She was just staring off, in a space that she alone occupied. I wanted to save her. Save her from the emptiness, the loneliness of that space without me. And the sun kissed her in a way that made me jealous.

I could tell she had been through much, but in spite of it, she shined. I could see it, even if no one else did. I didn’t realize I approached her until after I did and she gave me that smile. That grand, glorious breadth of a thing. And she giggled a little saying, “Excuse me?” That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew I had said something stupid, she probably thought I was silly now. She’d never take me seriously.

She wouldn’t tell me her name until our third date. She didn’t give me her phone number until our fourth. She was different and worth every effort. She let me in. She showed me who she was, instead of telling. It was three months before she’d come to my house and even longer before she invited me to hers. She was interesting. Most of them I had met were not, at least, not like her. When I asked her how I could get in touch with her, she said, “You don’t even know my name”, in the sweetest voice, it was smooth like melted chocolate. “Pardon me miss, I’m usually not that rude.. You’ve paralyzed me. And there it was again that subtle smile, the airy chuckle. It did something to me. Ran through me like electricity. She was stunning. “May I ask your name?” “You may.” “Will you tell me if I guess?” “Maybe.” “Do you have a number I can reach you at or may I give you mine?” “No.” It was simple, but true. No. I hadn’t heard that in a while, I could hardly believe she said it. At first I thought she was kidding. She wasn’t. “Meet me at the museum, Sunday 3 pm.” And she grabbed the remainder of her regular lunch with her regular purse and walked away in her regular shoes in the most irregular way.

She sashayed. I think that’s what you call what she does with her legs and hips and arms. She left me there standing. What day is it? Only Wednesday. I rushed back to the office, rushed through my work, rushed past my coworkers, rushed home, rushed to bed because I was in a hurry see. Rushed into Thursday, then Friday, then Saturday, and finally Sunday see. I was at the museum at 2:49 sharp. She was sitting there in front of some exhibit I had not noticed. She was writing. I watched her for a time. I watched her write and pause and stare off and glance up and see me. I was embarrassed, but only for a brief second. That smile made it suddenly fade.

We stayed at the museum for hours, and she narrated and told me stories. She just made them up, and I was fascinated by them and her. “Tell me your name..” “Not yet,” she said. I stopped her. “Why?” “Because if I find or you find that we’ve made a wrong choice, no time has been wasted on the triviality of a name, no breath has been wasted on something soon to be forgotten.” “What’s in a name?” “You give me one.” “Beautiful,” I said. And there it was again, the beam.

And our date was over. Before she left she handed me a flyer. Poetry slam, Thursdays, at Twingos, open mic starts at 8 pm. And as she left, she said, “This Thursday.” And waved while glancing back the way she did. Four days until Thursday, until I would see her again. Four days until I would see that smile, and listen to her not tell me her given name. I liked that she did that. I was intrigued. I got there right at 8, she was lounging in an easy chair sipping a raspberry elixir from a large mug. She was writing. I slid next to her and asked, “Whatchoo writing?” She said, “You know sometimes, the words, they just rush in and all I can do is write.” “I knew it, you have that look.” “What look?” “That look of someone governed by what they do.”

And the poets went on one after another and I thought, “Finally I will get her name.” And the emcee introduced her. “Next up to the stage, Beautiful ladies and gentlemen.” And all I heard were finger snaps and whistles, and a bass came in intruding. And she said that she used to be a black panther and Billie Holiday. And she talked about Tupac and Malice Green and finding salvation and being redeemed. And her name was fitting because she was all that it was and it looked good on her. And she finished and there were more poets and we sipped green and raspberry teas with raw sugar and I realized that before now I had been a regular man with a regular life and a regular job and a regular house and a regular car until this most irregular moment.

She kissed me on my cheek, and a cab pulled up as if on cue. She was Scarlet O’Hara and I did not want her to go. Before she left she said, “Meet me at this address.” Saturday morning at 3 am. Only two days to wait. I felt like a kid at Christmas. Sleep was out of the question. And Saturday came and the address was a diner, the Sunshine Grille, and she saw me pull up. She opened the door. And we had breakfast and she told me more stories and she made me a crab benedict—something thing special. It was delicious. She told me stories about the people who came to the place, owners and patrons alike. She called them her family and I was amazed. We went on like that for what seemed like hours. She fascinated me, Beautiful did. And at the end of her final tale she extended a well manicured hand and said, “I’m Lucille. So very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

From that moment, we were inseparable. We had fun embarking upon the most wonderful adventures. She showed me things, things I never expected to learn from her. I went to my first opera and swam naked in the murky waters of Belle Isle—at two in the morning—in the rain. She made me feel like that. A kid. She was so open and free. I admired her for that. I learned that from her too, how to be free.

But, as free as she was, I could tell there was still some amazingly tragic thing that she kept tucked away somewhere. It was something I would have to scavenge for; it gripped her like a vice. Months went by before she could tell me. It came out somewhere between tears and shame, my soul ached when I heard it. I could not imagine bearing a pain like that. Even still, I could not imagine that some one, any one would give her, anything less than love.