By Kofi Fosu Forson
Majorie appears from her necessary post-sleep adjustments with a towel covering her private portions. She burns her pupils into mine. It’s the cue, about the unwritten rule, to give her privacy. I trudge out of the room to prepare breakfast. The apartment has certainly settled from the effects of the days before.
In the kitchen I slice an avocado in fine pieces and not caring about time, wait for a loaf of French bread to heat up. When it’s ready, each item of food adorns a tray accompanying me back into the bedroom. A tea kettle comes to a whistle just as the door opens. Marjorie rushes out of the room still wearing the towel around her waist.
What did Dracula on the wall think of us last night? My furry skin and Marjorie’s blonde wig.
Marjorie returns with a pot of tea, hot on her palms. In the frenzy of it all, she secures it on the chest of drawers.
"You must have something decent for me to put on."
"I don’t suppose you want to leave here as Marilyn Monroe."
She hops into the bathroom after picking out a shirt from my personal collection. I remove the gorilla suit, slip on a pair of slacks and a white V-neck and proceed with the cups of tea. Marjorie joins me on the bed, vibrant and determined. I begin by serving her some avocado with bread. It’s very Ghanaian. Was this bequeathed to us by the British or could it be an African Queen mother’s idea of an appetizer?
Dracula on the wall, what would you do in this situation?
In the past, Marjorie has wondered about the relevance of Ghana’s history to my life in the modern day. I’ve always dodged the issue. Most often, history is made up of names we choose to remember or forget. Those that remain with me are Super O.D., Opiah Mensah and the traditional television culture that prepared me for a more vast culture in The States.
"What do you love the most about your independence from the British?" Marjorie inquires.
"Sipping on a cup of Twinings Tea, dunking my bread. If spread elaborately with butter, after dunking, it’s fun to watch the butter floating over the tea. Organisms come to mind."
"Surely, you have more important things to think about."
"Yeah. Water, leaves and dough."
Lying next to me, Marjorie is easily a conspirator of woman-hood, a Venus of Urbino. Marjorie’s voice could have been fashioned after an F.B.I. agent , carefully throated, pushed out of strong lungs. With technique, she spreads the avocado evenly on the bread, possibly gravitating towards the precision of a beautician. Her refusing to place the food in her mouth is for me such a disappointing resignation. The candidness of the bread, white and unaffected being cradled by forklike fingers, charges into her mouth. Splendidly the jaws rotate, cycle after cycle. Saliva sends the bread down in a swallow, followed by a kiss of the Twining Tea cup. Marjorie sips away and the crush of sun filling the room brings much delight to the completion of my early meal.
"My love of bread should be a suggestion," Marjorie dictates.
"Suggestion of what?"
"Virginity, Mother Mary. Of the belief that I should never be interrogated for answers I choose not to give."
"It’s about your father, isn’t it?"
"I dare to classify that as personal. Still, I would like for you to come along on a visit to my mother’s."
Marjorie has acquired a comfort in my clothing, smoothing her hands over it. Ironically, the uneasy feeling on her face is a reaction to the realms of the day. Her mother is Felice Tittleton. She lives in Long Island. Marjorie expects her share of fireworks today. We gather the utensils and redefine ourselves. I had not much of a chance to woo her anyway. We conduct a dishwashing session best fit for potential roommates. Afterwards we head back to the bedroom where we take turns dressing in the bathroom. I have the most genderless attire. Either that or Marjorie accepts her newfound manhood in my denim, wrinkled blazer and army boots.