In His Arms. Yasmin Sullivan Y.

and weekend hours, so that I can work full-time, go to school and be with my son in the evenings.”

      “So you’re working your way through school and raising a son. That’s a lot.”

      “I have good support. My cousin Nigel lives here, and his wife is a godsend.”

      “Where are you all from originally?”

      “Charleston, South Carolina.”

      “Aha. I thought I caught a slight Southern drawl here and there.”

      Michelle swatted at Rashad playfully, but he caught her hand before it hit and held it for a moment—a long moment.

      When he released her hand, Michelle had to shake her head to clear the questions in her mind and release the flutter from her stomach.

      “We Charlestonians are proud of our Southern heritage. I do still have the accent, but I can turn it on and off now that I’ve been in D.C. for so long. You should hear me when I go home.” Michelle then checked her watch. “Actually, we need to finish our drinks. They’ll be closing soon.”

      “Oh, you’re right,” Rashad said, glancing around. “I think they’ve closed the doors already. They’re just waiting for us stragglers. Hey, if you can stay a little late next week, we should walk along King Street. They stay open later, and they have bunches of shops and galleries—art, jewelry—”

      “I know. My cousin’s wife—her name is Regina—she co-owns a mosaic and beadwork studio and gallery not far up King Street.” Michelle stood as Rashad paid their tab. “That’s how I first found out about the Torpedo Factory. What about you? Are you from D.C. originally?”

      “No, but my family is from Baltimore, and we’d come down every so often.” Rashad also rose, and they headed back to the promenade. “Then I came to D.C. to go to Howard, and then I stayed here to work. I’ve been here awhile. I don’t know where everything is, but I know most stuff.”

      “Between work and home, I don’t get out a lot.”

      “Now I know why you haven’t seen much of the D.C. area. I’d like to show some of it to you if you’ll let me.” His tone was soft, but then he straightened, and in a matter-of-fact voice, he added, “If that’s all right.”

      “Maybe after the semester is over. I can do more over the winter break and over the summer.”

      They were retracing their steps along the waterfront, taking their time back to their cars.

      “Tell me about being a graphic designer. What attracted you to that?”

      “I love art, and I love working on the computer.”

      “Ugh. That’s where we differ. I like paper and pencil or paint. I don’t know what I’ll do when we can’t read books, actual books, anymore.”

      “I like that, too, but I like the computer, as well. And mind you, the day is not far off when everything you read will be on a computer tablet of some kind.”

      “No, no. I don’t want to hear it.” Michelle covered her ears with her hands. “La, la, la—” She interrupted herself laughing, and Rashad started laughing, as well.

      “Okay. I’m past my rage against the future. You may go on.”

      “I’m not sure I should. I work for a web design firm, so everything we do is for the computer. But there are graphic designers in a variety of fields. I took to web design because I had to learn how to do one for a project, and I got hooked. It’s great bringing an organization to life on the screen. I guess I like what I do.”

      “You’re very lucky.”

      “And you?” Rashad asked. “Why advertising?”

      “I love the artistic side of it,” Michelle said. “I don’t know much about the business side of it as yet. I don’t like the idea of fooling people or luring people with false promises. I want to produce art, and advertising is what I want to do because it’s art that everybody sees. It’s art without the hundred-dollar ticket price for the orchestra seat.”

      “So you’re a Marxist revolutionary about art—art for the masses!”

      “In a way. And don’t knock Marxism. From what I’ve read, Marx was quite brilliant. That’s my way of saying he’s dense as hell.”

      Both laughed.

      “He was damn near incomprehensible sometimes,” Rashad agreed. “I’ve dabbled, as well.”

      “Kudos to us for trying,” Michelle said. “High five.”

      Michelle raised her hand, and Rashad met it.

      “Are you sure you’re not a sports fan?”

      “Absolutely sure.”

      They were at Michelle’s car now and had paused. Rashad seemed as reluctant as she was about the end of the evening. It had felt like being on vacation to Michelle. Adult conversation with a handsome man, an hour in which she didn’t have to be anywhere, talking with someone who seemed to be genuinely interested in what she was saying, what she was thinking. It was like paradise.

      Michelle unlocked her door, and Rashad leaned toward her and reached around her to open the door. But they still stood there.

      Rashad leaned toward her in the dim light of the garage, and, for a moment, Michelle thought that he was going to kiss her. She held her breath and felt her heart begin to pound in her chest.

      But just as quickly as it happened, the moment was over. Rashad straightened, and Michelle wondered if she had misread his body movements. She felt her face flush with embarrassment, wondering if he could tell that she’d thought he was about to—

      “Follow behind me. I won’t run any yellow lights or anything like that. But honk if you start to fall behind.”

      Rashad had turned and had taken several steps toward his car, but he turned back.

      “How long have you been married?”

      “Married?”

      “Your husband is a lucky man. And you were married right out of high school, so that’s about...six years?”

      “I’m not married anymore.”

      “Huh? I thought...”

      Michelle saw the confusion in Rashad’s crinkled brow.

      “I was divorced a little while before I moved to D.C. That was one of the reasons I moved—to leave that past behind, so to speak.”

      “But before I asked how long you guys had been here.”

      “I thought you meant me and my son. We’ve been here two years. I didn’t know that you thought—”

      “Wow. I guess I just assumed that you were married—still married.”

      “I guess I wasn’t clear.”

      There was a pause in which each seemed to be recalculating—tracing their conversations to detect the flaw that had led to the misunderstanding and reassessing what had just happened in light of the clarification.

      Still, Michelle wasn’t sure what to think, and it was she who broke the silence.

      “I had better get going. I have to get my son from the sitter.”

      Her words seemed to awaken Rashad from a reverie, and he refocused his eyes on her. He stared at her a moment before he spoke. “Okay. Yes. Just follow behind me.”

      He took a couple of steps toward his car and then turned back again.

      “Next Wednesday let’s have dinner in Old Town Alexandria after class and window-shop along King Street—if you can get home late again.”

      “Okay,” Michelle answered. “I’ll check and email you if the