On her way home, she stopped by the clothing store.
"Good afternoon. Has the blazer I ordered arrived?"
"Good afternoon. Yes, it's here, already wrapped. Would you like to try it on?"
"I'll try it at home. If there's an issue, I'll bring it back."
"Of course."
Nearby, an elderly man was trying to help his wife into a dress. The woman resisted.
"It's too small, and I never ordered this thing. I don't own anything like it. Get this rag off me!"
And suddenly, she slapped the man across the face.
When she got home, Akreda glanced over the assembly instructions for a bookcase. The doorbell rang. She set aside the piece of furniture she'd been working on, brushed the sawdust off her jeans, and headed for the door. She looked through the peephole. A dark-haired woman stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of a navy jacket. Akreda didn't recognize her.
"Akreda?" the woman called through the door.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, scanning the hallway as if checking she had the right place. Akreda opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.
"Yes?"
The woman laughed at her cautious stance. She noticed the sawdust on Akreda's clothes and the streaks of sweat at her temples.
"I'm Malika," she said. "I don't know if you remember me. We met at that party last month. Darius's."
The name Darius rang a bell. Malika waited, her fingers still tucked into her jacket pockets.
"I don't really remember," Akreda Amena said. "The party's kind of blurry."
Malika made a vague gesture toward the hallway behind her. She pulled out a business card and showed it to Akreda.
"You gave this to me at the party. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. I didn't expect you to remember me. You were pretty tipsy."
Akreda Amena unlatched the chain.
"Come in, please."
Malika stepped inside. She looked around, taking in the half-assembled furniture and the piles of books scattered haphazardly across the floor.
"Putting things together is never as simple as the instructions make it look."
Malika glanced at the photographs on the desk. A beach trip with friends. An old picture of her parents sitting on a porch swing. Memories had their place.
"You have a beautiful home. Even if I can see you're still working on it. Do you like keeping yourself busy—rearranging, refurnishing?"
"I had a classmate named Malika," Akreda said.
"That was me. We talked about it at the party. That's why I thought you'd remember."
"Sorry."
"I know a man named Daniel. Remind me who Darius is, because I don't remember," Akreda Amena said, lifting her coffee cup. "Would you like a coffee?"
"Darius is the guy who threw the party," Malika clarified. "The one with the big rooftop terrace in the West End. That night you drank the blue cocktail. You said it was too sweet, and then you downed three glasses like it was nothing."
Akreda Amena felt her face heat up as the memory came back. The blue drink. That was it. She'd tried it because she'd never had anything like it before.
"Right. That blue drink messed me up. I remember that part. What came after—not so much. I've never been great at remembering people's names. But that doesn't mean I was boring company."
Malika laughed.
"No, definitely not. You probably forgot that you turned down the most sought-after man there. It was hilarious when you told him off."
"What did I tell him?"
"That some people who got lucky and made money have no idea what they want from life. What kind of help is the community supposed to expect from a bunch of idiots who can't even support themselves? They live in their own bubble, a separate reality they build to protect themselves from the harsh one they're part of. They might as well be on Mars, or in some alternate world, with nothing to do but keep living comfortably. And the painful truth is, you can't turn money into a tool and shove it into a woman the right way. If you grab too fast, you don't even know where a woman likes a finger—up her nose, right?"
"And he didn't get mad?" Akreda Amena asked.
"Mad? Not at all. Everyone was laughing at him. I enjoyed it, at least—you put him in his place. I know him from other parties. He drives me insane and gives me the impression he avoids me. Mostly because he reminds me of my brother."
"You have a brother?"
"A complete idiot. We don't really talk. Never got along, not even when we were kids. I always suspected he was stupid. Once a boy came to the door and asked if he wanted to go outside and play Alim Jim Jim. I asked what that was. They'd close their eyes and hit each other. He'd take a punch to the head. And because he never guessed who hit him, the others would punch him two more times. I mean—are you dumb? He was. He'd come home crying that this one or that one beat him up."
"I also vaguely remember a guy who caused a scene. He was in a wheelchair."
"Yeah. A friend of Darius's. Former football player. Right after he signed some massive contract with a big-name team, he bought some fancy car—called it a 'woman vacuum.' And now look what that brilliant purchase got him. Sad. He won't walk again. People who know these things say he was incredibly talented."
Malika stood up.
"I'm going now. I only stopped by because you gave me your address and told me I could visit anytime. Want me to leave you my phone number? Or do you want Darius's?"
"Both. I'm glad I spent time with someone pleasant. As you saw, I really was alone. And emotions like these—remembering scenes from parties I've been to—I savor them. I'll definitely call you."