She could smell Kwame's cologne on the pillow as she rolled over in the morning, her eyes still closed in half-sleep. She instinctively reached out a hand to caress his arm, his shoulder, or whatever body part she might happen to come in contact with, but she met with nothing except empty air. She cracked her eye open, and her vision concurred with her sense of touch: she was alone in the bed. She closed her eyes again, and felt deep sobs welling up in the back of her throat. No, she told herself forcefully, I won't do this. I spent all last night crying, and I'm not going to start off my day off with this shit as well. I am going to be strong, and just cope with this crap on my own. With that, she shoved herself up in the bed, and threw back the covers, exposing her legs to the coldness of the morning. She spent a few minutes trying to locate her slippers, but decided finally that it simply wasn't worth it. Her feet quickly became accustomed to the freezing hardwood floors.

She padded into kitchen, and started some coffee brewing. She glanced into the dining room, and saw that it was still set from the night before. The white roses were already beginning to wilt in the crystal vase, and the half-eaten food on the china plates had congealed into some hard, unidentifiable form. The scented candles were melted down almost to the end, and had dripped all over her silk tablecloth.

She turned towards the living room, knowing what she'd find there, and yet wanting to torment herself. She saw the record of last night's activities, her clothes still strewn about the room, cushions thrown every which way, and the two glasses of wine making rings on the coffee table. Well, actually only one glass was on the coffee table, the other had been knocked off in their throes of passion, and now her white carpet was stained purple. She stared at the stain, and decided that it either looked like Jay Leno with an afro or a dragon riding in a wheelbarrow on a cloud.

just didn't have the energy to contain them. She had thought that after all the wailing and sobbing she had done last night, she would be all cried out. But now, here comes a fresh batch of tears in the morning.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she whimpered as she remembered the evening before, how she had finally told Kwame that it was over between them. She couldn't stand it anymore, the lying, the sneaking around. Sure, he kept saying he was going to leave his wife. She had never believed him. That's what they all say to keep you around, leading you on, promising you the great prize of marriage if you just hang in there for a little while longer.

To tell the truth, she had never wanted to marry him. She had found out he was married on their second date, and it hadn't bothered her that much. She had felt shocked and wondered at the complete void of emotion that she had about the fact that she was now, officially, "the other woman." She had been raised as a good girl, in an upright christian home. Her father had been a minister in a prestigious church, her mother the most devout woman you could ever hope to meet. They had both strove to instill in her the moral lessons of the bible. In fact, they had virtually pounded them into her head. And yet it seemed to make no difference. She felt not an ounce of remorse or shame at what she was doing. She hadn't even felt a twinge of guilt when Kwame told her he had two children. That was just not her problem, she thought, and swept the knowledge right out of her consciousness.

But, over time, it had begun to weigh on her. Oh, not the fact of the cheating itself. No, the lies and the sneaking around had finally gotten to her. She had always been a very honest and straightforward person and it offended her to be hidden like some crazy old aunt the family was ashamed of. She knew the reasoning intellectually; she knew that Kwame could not admit to having an affair with her, because it would destroy any future his budding political career had. Sure her mind knew that, but her heart didn't.

Something had happened that she hadn't counted on, however, that she had not figured into the equation. As stupid as it sounds, she fell in love with him. She couldn't believe it herself when she finally realized it. She had been sitting watching television one night, and a commercial had come on for anniversary gifts. The commercial just had an old couple together, obviously in love, and the man giving the woman a beautiful diamond ring, presumably for their anniversary. The tag line went, "Show her you'd marry her all over again." And she had begun to cry, uncontrollably. She had just started sobbing, sobs that wracked her entire body until she felt utterly drained. It was then that she knew. She hadn't cried in years, not since Kenneth broke her heart 10 years ago. She felt as if she had not cried a single day in her life until Kwame.

Now she couldn't seem to stop crying. She sat down on her Italian leather black sofa, and buried her face in her hands. She cried with all her body, and she felt as if her soul were leaking out of her eyes. She stayed like that for a very long time. No thoughts penetrated her brain, except the thought that Kwame was gone. A knock at the door pulled her out of her mood, however. Now, who could that be, she thought, rather angrily. She wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone at all. It was probably just the paper boy or something, coming to collect his money. She decided, after a moment to answer it. She was not a person who could let the phone ring without picking it up, even if she was ninety-five percent sure it wasn't someone she wanted to talk to. She just had to know.

She walked quickly to the front door, stopping only to check her appearance in the hallway mirror. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair was a mess, and she was in her rumpled pajamas. Other than that, though, she looked like a million dollars. She got to the door, and opened it slowly. Kwame's smiling face greeted her at the door. Wordlessly he pulled out a bouquet of flowers behind his back, and held them out to her. She stared at his face, the face of the man she loved and had been having an affair with for two years. His face was warm and inviting, a soft chocolate color, a very smooth complexion. His teeth were very white, almost too white, and perfectly straight. She often thought that he could have been a model, and he had been told many times in his life that he was a dead ringer for Denzel Washington. She stared at his hand holding the flowers. That hand had touched her so many times, made her feel so beautiful and loved and safe. She stared at Kwame just a moment longer, memorizing every aspect of the moment, the cut of his suit, the scent of the flowers, the way the light glistened in his tight curls. And then she slammed the door in his face. "When a woman says "no," she said, forcefully and decisively to the huge, empty hallways, "She means 'no'."

WALIDAH IMARISHA, is currently a sophomore at Portland State University, Portland Oregon. She's majoring in history. She is the Opinion editor of the school paper.