Lady Mallouk
Kofi Fosu Forson

Suzanne Mallouk and I met in the circular seating area in front of Hunter College back in the mid nineties of Clinton’s America. Literature made sense. I was in the same class as Emer Martin, the Irish writer.

I sat next to a pretty woman who immediately let out a heavy sigh. I promptly told her that every thing was going to be alright. We fell into conversation. It wasn’t long before she told me she was Jean-Michel Basquiat’s former lover.

My initial impression of her was that she was precocious. She looked important, not enough to attract unnecessary attention. She accompanied me that evening to a reading where I read from my novel in progress. While I stood up on stage reminiscing about gorillas, she and I made eye-contact.

During the intermission, we went for pizza. I recollect us attempting to cross the street. We almost walked into each other. This to her was a sign of genius. Inside the pizzeria, Suzanne wiped off her thick red lipstick. More so without make up, she had the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

It was a wonderful evening, so I suggested Suzanne and I take our troubles downtown. In front of her apartment I stood while she went upstairs to change. She brought with her books featuring Basquiat’s art and a photograph of the two lovers to prove that she was indeed who she said she was.

Days later, I tried to make sense of our meeting. I invited Suzanne to a party honoring Emer Martin. Suzanne was the prettiest woman in the room. She did everything to fight off the women who approached me.

For that evening alone, Suzanne Mallouk and I were friends and I was in the company of history. I ran into Suzanne years later. She had furthered her goal as a doctor and was practicing.

For the blessed beauty of Downtown New York to commit to the practice of medicine, life is beautiful and we all grow up to be cowboys.