thinly slivered chocolate ganache cake and an orange-scented brioche bread pudding with amaretto cream—paired with Dolce, Randall’s most expensive dessert wine. Every man, save for Byron, whose mouth twitches in anticipation of Candace’s next suggestive move, engages in a segregated conversation with Randall. They natter raucously over sports and bullshit in that way men do: disjointed hyperbolic statements that mean nothing, but their laughter says they’re having fun.
“Why is it…?” Lena straightens so that her voice projects across the table. “That the men talk. The women talk. But we never talk together?”
The beads of the crystal chandelier tinkle from laughter’s vibration, Randall’s being the loudest. “Because we men never have time to get together.” To a person, except for Lena, all heads dip in agreement as if Randall is their leader and it is his right to voice the group’s opinion. Lena is unsure if this is because he is or because they’re in his house, eating his wife’s good food, drinking his expensive wine. “We work hard to support your habits.” All eyes follow Randall’s finger as he thumps it against his chest on the spot where the yellow diamond rests on Lena’s.
“Whatever happened to what attracted you to us in the first place: politics, race, music, art, last summer’s bestseller… fucking?” Lena snaps and watches Randall’s eyebrows arc in dismay at the same time that the doorbell chimes.
“That must be Sharon.” Randall grimaces and shoves his chair back from the table. “I told her to drop by for dessert.”
“Why?” Lena asks.
He looks at Charles. “You’ll get a kick out of her. She’s sharp.”
Lena brushes crumbs from her now crumpled outfit and watches Randall guide Sharon into the dining room by the elbow and make introductions. Randall has told Lena on more than one occasion that in corporate America, like other places, black folks have to look out for one another—Sharon needs a mentor, and he needs someone to keep him abreast of what goes on in middle management. The not so subtle hints that Lena has watched Sharon toss in his direction for the three years she has been with TIDA are not the kind of loyalty Lena appreciates.
“Why, don’t you look cute.” Sharon bends to greet Lena with a hug. The skinny spaghetti straps of her sleek black cocktail dress have fallen off her angular shoulders and she looks Lena over again. “That’s the same get-up Randall gave his secretary. I told him I’d have to teach him a thing or two about presents. Don’t you agree?”
“Oh, I think he does quite well.” Lena fingers her diamond. “When he sets his mind to it.”
Randall squeezes an extra chair in the space between him and Charles and immediately launches into a recap of how he fired his associate. Sharon chimes in. Together, the two make the dismissal seem like a lively event.
“You should have seen Thompson’s face.” Sharon pantomimes a dejected look. “When he came to clean out his office, he never looked me in the eye. He was in and out so fast that he left a picture of his kids and dog on his desk.”
“Mess with me once you’re on my shit list,” Randall says. “Twice, and you’re out. You were great, Sharon. I won’t forget that.” Randall lifts his glass. “To Sharon.”
“And thank you for letting me barge in.” Sharon clinks her glass against Randall’s.
“I bought three chunks each of Novo, Quadra, and IntelligNT.” Randall changes the subject. “Got them all for a steal when they split.” His voice drops when he reveals the stiff three-figure price per share. Lena watches Sharon’s eyes grow wider every time his chest puffs higher and higher with each stock description. Lena has told him a thousand times that the men don’t like to hear him brag. They suffer from financial penis envy, his portfolio is bigger than theirs, but right now she is unsure for whose benefit the boasts are.
For the second time in less than ten days, Lena has an attack of fantasy violence. This time Sharon is the object of her desire, only unlike Candace’s comical recovery, Lena imagines Randall would push her away and gallantly rush to Sharon’s side. If she had the guts to be a bad girl, Lena thinks, she might loosen this damn, scratchy tunic, drop the baggy pants to the floor, unhook her bra with one hand, and push her lacy bikinis down her legs to get her husband’s attention. She could sidle up to Randall, press herself against him, moan