Diamond Playgirls. Miasha

down, calm down. I was just kidding,” he said as he started down the street. “So, you have a hot date for Valentine’s Day? You look real nice. I noticed that when you got in the cab.”

      I know this man isn’t trying to push up on me. Dior grimaced and rolled her eyes, then noticed the driver looking at her in the rearview mirror again.

      “Listen,” he said in an annoyed voice, “I was just trying to be nice. You don’t need to make a face like I’m trying to pick you up. You’re nothing but a fare to me. And shoot. I don’t even like women. I’m gay.”

      Dior blinked her eyes in surprise, then burst out in laughter.

      “What’s so funny? You have something against gay men?” the driver asked with a growl in his voice.

      “No, no,” Dior hurriedly assured him. “Listen, you’re not going to believe this, but…”

      As they drove down Malcolm X Boulevard, Dior spilled her guts about her tragic encounter with Chris, the encouragement she’d been given by Gordon, and her plan to meet a blind date that evening.

      By the time he pulled up next to MoBay they were chatting like old buddies.

      “Can you move up just a little so you’re not right in front of the club? I’m following Gordon’s advice and scoping him out before I find myself jumping from the fire into the frying pan. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you extra.”

      “Don’t worry about it. Besides, now that I’ve heard your story I almost feel obligated to wait for you.” He turned in the driver’s seat to face her. “No offense, but you don’t seem to have any kind of Gay-dar going for you. I want to stick around and make sure you get a straight guy this time.”

      Dior giggled. “I can’t even get mad. Thanks.”

      Patrons went in and out of the chic lounge, but none carrying the white rose Dior and Mr. Good Black Man agreed to bring with them. Butterflies started to dance in Dior’s stomach as she embraced the idea that she might have gotten stood up. She opened her purse and took out her mirror to touch up her makeup, and in that moment Mr. Good Black Man jumped out of a cab in front of MoBay and headed for the door.

      “There he goes!” the driver said. “That guy has a white rose.”

      Dior sat up in her seat and peered out the windshield. The only visual she and the driver could get of Mr. Good Black Man was his profile. But when he reached out and put his hand on the door to open it, he turned around and the two of them got a good look at his face.

      “Oh no! It can’t be!” Dior groaned and fell back onto the seat.

      “Isn’t that the guy who took care of your tab that day?” the driver said, oblivious of her reaction. “Naw, he ain’t gay. But no offense, because he was nice to you and all, but he seemed like he had the making of a real jerk if you ask me.”

      Dior was sick to her stomach. Mr. Good Black Man was pesky Jerome from her block. She was too through, wanting to go back home and cry herself to sleep. How could she have been so stupid? she thought. She should have seen through his “I don’t post my picture because I’m not superficial” routine. A Blair Underwood look-alike? Jerome was butt ugly, no matter what he was wearing, and he didn’t even bother to dress up for the blind date. He was actually walking into the club wearing that same old dingy army jacket. And a business owner who owned real estate? Jerome didn’t even have a job and he lived with his mother! She should have known better than to go out on a blind date with a guy she met on the Internet. She got just what she deserved.

      “So, what are you waiting for?” the driver asked, interrupting Dior’s pissed-off thoughts.

      Dior shook her head in disgust. Here she was all dolled up to meet the man of her dreams and the whole night was a bust. The thought of going back home and spending the night alone in her apartment contemplating her series of bad decisions brought tears to her eyes. No, she decided as she tried to blink back her tears. I’m out, and I’m going to make the best of it. She wasn’t going to go home and waste her stunning and costly outfit. Besides, she could use a drink, so she decided that she wouldn’t abandon an evening at MoBay. Instead, she paid the driver and right before she stepped out of the cab, she handed him the white rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

      “Huh? What’s this for?”

      “You don’t really think I’m going to waste a perfectly good rose on that fool, do you?” she said with a smile. “And I’m certainly not going to let one monkey stop my show. I’m going to go in and have a good time by myself.”

      The driver grinned. “Good girl. But you don’t think he’ll recognize you?”

      Dior shook her head. “We never exchanged pictures, and I never even gave him a description of myself. He’ll recognize me from the block, but I don’t think he’ll have the nerve to come over and say anything to me.” She smiled when she remembered what Margie had told her about him not bothering people once they stood up to him.

      She walked inside MoBay and took a seat at the bar. “What would you suggest I have?” she asked the bartender when he came to take her drink order.

      “Harlem mojitos are the house specialty. Can’t go wrong with that,” the man answered politely.

      “Hey, that’s what I’m having. You’ll love it.”

      Dior turned and faced Jerome, who had come up behind her. The man seemed stunned. “Oh, it’s you.”

      “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dior said with a sneer.

      “Forget you. I’m here meeting my girlfriend,” Jerome said angrily.

      Dior snorted. “Judging by the way you look I can just imagine what she looks like.”

      “I’ll have you know she’s a professional woman with a job. And she looks better than you,” Jerome retorted.

      Dior snorted and turned back to the bartender, who was putting her drink on the bar. “Who’s that playing?” she asked him, pointing to a light-skinned man with long dreads blowing the sweetest sounds from his tenor sax.

      “Julian Meyers. He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

      Dior nodded, then noticed a couple getting up from their table. She hurriedly paid the bartender, grabbed her drink, and rushed over before someone else could claim the spot. Her mood still lousy, she placed her jacket over the back of the vacant chair at the table to make it look as if she had a companion who had perhaps gone to the restroom.

      Thirty minutes and two Harlem mojitos later, Dior’s mood finally began to mellow. She started swaying her shoulders to the soulful jazz and looked around the bar. This place really is nice, she thought. I really am glad I stayed. She looked over at the bar, then did a double take. Was that the girl who lived above her squeezed in at the bar? What was her name again? Tamara?

      Things are looking up, after all, Dior thought happily. Who needs a man? Sometimes sisterhood is all it takes.