Man beaten for dating black woman
Half of my mother’s four sisters are married to white men.
My cousins can be split into two groups: Ones who grew up with weaves and skin lighteners and ones who needed sunscreen and haircuts.
He told me that he had gotten out of a 10-year relationship with the girl he thought he would marry and I told him that I had spent two years alone finding myself.
The match wasn’t ideal, but we took to each other like people end up doing when left in a room alone.
He rode skateboards and carried around napkins in his front pocket, a habit he’d learned from his grandpa.
We were two people of color, the passive transgression, but the responsibility of leaving our races still clung onto our chests.
We live together in a small studio in Chelsea, where we cook dinners and take showers.
We ask each other about dessert options and call each other good-looking even though we have gained weight.
Our portrait was perfectly hung and constantly dusted for shine.
But whenever he would call, I would let my phone ring until the screen went black. ” “Soon,“ I would say, as though there was more urgency in believing it to be true.
It didn’t feel like love at first, more like companionship at our all-time lows.