THE ENIGMA UNVEILED
Despite some obvious measure of ability, part of my struggle for success has been the historical failure of choosing the right career path for my strange personality. Most engineers I know are very comfortable with numbers, patterns, and sequences. They tend to be systematic in their thoughts. Well, I can be (if I choose to be), but most of the time, I am not. Do I want to most of the time? No, that is rather doubtful. This is now my world that I am letting others into, so you won't find it here if you like chronological progression and sequence. We will start somewhere at some reference point and work our way back and forth through the whole process. What shall we cover? Virtually everything. I lied just now – it’s not ‘everything,’ just significant parts of select episodes. Everything can’t hold.
Why should I start with some distant, unrelated memory of
playing in the open yard at Dover, St. Mary near Windsor Castle on the border with Portland? I was probably only two years old but felt comfortable playing alone then. On reasonable probability, it was likely a Friday night. I can still remember the flicker of the flames from a lamp – probably Home Sweet Home marked on it. They gathered around it and sang, read, and talked. The Adventist family background. Yes, I remember my most ex- tended baby memory. Older family members told me it was in the hills of Dover, Windsor Castle St. Mary/Portland.
I don’t remember the actual words ‘Home Sweet Home’ written on the lamp. This lamp was one of the prevalent relics of yesteryear when Jamaica’s electric grid only extended to a fortunate few. It may or may not have been one of those lamps, but I recall that I continued the tradition of playing in an open yard at Lauriston near Spanish Town, maybe at about three or three plus. In truth, Mommy (my eldest aunt) claimed I used to have an invisible friend – this woman I used to talk with. She was invisible to everyone else, of course, except me. Mommy labelled her as a duppy or spirit, against whom she had to take ritualistic action to rid me of her presence. Hmmm, I don’t know. For me, it was just the early development of the foundational stages for my mildly introverted personality.
What does any of that have to do with my turbulent experiences with relationships in general? Or my relationships with women in particular? The connectivity, if any, is unlikely to come out at this early stage. Be patient and follow the plot. I have realized that even a ‘simple’ little man like myself is intertwined with so much complexity that it can be hard to unravel fully. I have come to realize that the ones classed as unremarkable due to our apparent unassuming nature often exhibit the most depth. Silent rivers run deep, as the saying goes. Of course, some would say ‘silent’ is not a fair attribute to be ascribed, but that is for the segment of persons around you that think they know an individual so well but don’t. The process takes time.
The best point to pivot from is the place of immediate pain. Yes, some measure of deep pain and a sense of regret prompted this self-therapy. In truth, the point selected for starting is not the start of the pain but rather an unfolding of a new dimension. Let us label her Naddisha Jarrett. That should be a nice pseudo for our first in the series, but not first in the sequence of characters. Let me allow you to meet her. She is a past student of Marymount High School for Girls. The investigators can always do their checks at given locales but find nothing.
She had an exemplary academic record, regardless of her impoverished economic background. Most of the girls or women I associate with tend to be of that kind – from the spectrum of the intellectual to the profoundly brilliant. Despite lacking educational attainment or aptitude for such, some come with various levels of academic potential. Such is a simple distinct difference that people oft confuse. Naddisha had both profound intellectual ability and high academic potential.
When we met, she was about 24. Okay, now, come with the judgement when you calculate how old I was at the meeting. That information may soon be provided, especially for the critics. Oh yes, I am not exempt from the myriad of other men who prefer the youthful. While that may not sound politically correct, I will let it remain as I wrote it. There is no justification nor subscription to the moral definitions of some who think their Eurocentric, hypocritical, dualistic pretension of Christianity is somehow a global standard sent down from above.
We met at a convenience somewhere near the main road, along the path to my first house. If that location sounds vague, I am merely trying to tell the truth without being too open with the details. Choose a convenient one between the Spanish Town bypass and Old Harbour Town. She walked in as I was about to purchase something from the convenience shop, and it was noticeable she was some friend of sorts with the girl behind the counter.
This guy named Carlos had the habit of teasing me about the girl behind the counter. He assumedly ascribed to me the status of ‘pastor’ or ‘elder’ in a playful and mocking but friendly manner. By this time, I had moved into the area after buying the first house and getting married. I became heavily involved in church life; perhaps one of my big mistakes – never mind me putting it like that. Those who are ‘too holy’ may stop reading on seeing that, but the real thinkers may continue. So be it.
“Rochelle lonely yu nuh, she wants a man bad. You can come for her after work and carry her home because I know wifey is not there.” Carlos said this with seemingly keen enjoyment at the thought.
I noticed she slightly blushed at his remarks, especially his statements about how she was fat and round. Now little did they know, the proverbial ‘fat and round’ presentation of feminine body form did not appeal to me at all. I preferred women slim to average, except that the rump should be of proper size. The breasts can be average, but the curves on the posterior with heights of prominence. The young lady walked in with natural hair, noticeably petite, light-brown skinned, and a cute little face. Her skirt hugged her thighs and lower parts with the proximity that allowed me to appreciate the delicate curves she possessed. That part around there was not exceptionally prominent, but it was happening to an extent.
There was more than enough to excite my fancy. I felt my- self reacting with a tinge of propelling nerve. I almost plunged in immediately, but experience had taught me to be cool or at least try. A quick assessment compelled me to take note of other vital things. Beyond the pair of glasses she wore, her eyes tingled with a friendly and relaxed reflection, and the smile echoed on her pleasing tone. It was easy to see two things from her gaze: she was intelligent and a social butterfly.
I decided to keep my fixation on her gaze. Naddisha was such a clear contrast to her friend Rochelle, both physically and otherwise. I conjured up something complimentary that I can’t now recall but remember how she appeared to half accept. I cannot recall if I got her cell phone number on the first point of interaction or the second, but I got it. Yes, I did – I relived the moment with a tinge of excitement just now, as I wrote this line. She worked with a construction firm on the outskirts of the Old Capital, Samuels & Morgan Construction and Building Consultants. Somehow, I never really noticed the sign, rather poorly written, in the relatively unimpressive structure, that occupied a small space at the front of the business compound on along the Spanish Town bypass.
Yet, the presence of heavy equipment and their occasional movements in and out indicated that business was reasonably good or even great. I quickly learnt that she offered secretarial services to the firm, but later and gradually, I discovered her professional offerings were more than that, way more. On the upside, Naddisha essentially carried many administrative duties, including most of the technical components relating to costing jobs, responding to tenders and so on. Interestingly, it reminded me of what I used to do after joining Jamaica Power Company & Electric Service (JPCES) as a technical assistant in 1992. One of my professors at a university of global repute commented that business organizations are like snakes, so that name may not exist as a registered firm somewhere in the Caribbean; I merely want to tell my truth while avoiding any venomous sting.
It was a natural spark between us, or so it seemed to me.
Our first kiss in my living room at the Vineyards was magical. I wanted her right there and then, but that was not to happen. I hated that some of our early times together had to be so brief. Her role in the family business seemed to extend to her domestic support at Mr. and Mrs. Morgan’s home and children. At the time, I tried to think nothing of it except to force myself not to believe she was a bit over-extended in her duties. What personal time did she have? Very little. Hence our first passionate kiss, which was potently capable of leading to much more, was interrupted by a phone call from Mrs. Morgan. She had to go, and we had to leave quickly because Mrs. Morgan drove very fast, and in no time, we had to be at Gutters to intercept her.
I was not introduced. Naddisha was noticeably uncomfortable with the idea. At that point, I got the impression that the Morgans were like an extended parent of sorts. Partly, I did not mind. In any case, I was close to my mid-40s, and she was just about 22 years old, and I was still married, albeit unhappily. I parked my car across the road from the gas station to allow sufficient distance as she jumped from my Honda CRV (orange- red) to Mrs. Morgan’s Honda CRV of the same year (royal blue). Things continued for a couple of weeks with Naddisha and I seemingly unlucky to get the time of the day (more appropriately night) we both wanted. Meanwhile, our conversations were warming up to a nice bubble, like a pot seasoned with sentiments of erotic expressions, waiting for indulgence. Then the opportunity came somewhere in the middle of the third week, and she confirmed a ‘yes’ via text. She would be swinging by to spend some time with me. I got busy making sure all was well, or at least looking well and smelling that way. Even though my wife was on her second quest of personal distancing, I had more than enough domestication in my childhood socialization to keep my home in reasonably excellent condition, even all by my lonesome self.
A taxi carried her to my gate. The driver knew me well. From the Brandy Bush community near the Vineyards, Pestilence took much of the typical nature of local hustlers that operated a robot taxi for a living. There were two general categories of cabs in most local communities: those that operated in conformance to government regulations and those that did not. The latter was called ‘robots,’ but don’t ask me why. When it wasn’t convenient to use my vehicle, I would take his cab from Old Harbour Road to Vineyards. He even carried me to Andrews Memorial Hospitals on one of those frightening occasions when my hypertension seemed to want to put me to rest – permanently. I guess it could be said we were ‘bredren,’ slang loosely used to mean ‘friends,’, especially among men, but in our case, not close. It was not surprising when Naddisha told me on entering that Pestilence was trying to make a heavy hit on her. He roamed about day and night, seeking young women to devour.
We quickly forgot about him. Our eyes fixed on each other.
I took her towards me, our lips parting with our tongues colliding. The excitement of holding her neat little body in my arms as we kissed nearly knocked the glasses from her face. She removed them hastily but carefully and rested them on the centre table. Then we started our feverish exploration again. I am still baffled by how we quickly got each other out of our clothes. I felt fully ready to plunge deeply into her but knew that would be a terrible mistake. I would not last very long. My hands and lips were all over her.
She was flooded. I tasted her without hesitation, and the thrill of it made her tiny body start shivering with ecstatic pleasure. I was about to enter her when she crawled from under me and began to suck on my chest and down to my hungry waiting member, hard but moist. It was too much for me, so much that I had to interrupt. Knowing that I was on the brink of an explosion, I had to enter her first. Her delicacy was soft and smooth as I parted her little flowing flesh.
She retook command. With me on my back, she held my joystick in her hands, as if to say, “This is mine now,” and put her lovely lips on the tip of its head, slowly sinking it deeper while sucking. It was only for a few seconds. I could not hold it back. It was a massive volcanic explosion! Then I eased up, attempting to show her the bathroom.
“I swallowed it,” she said.
I was stunned. I have had other sucking encounters before, but the swallowing was, at that point, a novel experience. We lay there in my bed, basking in the satisfaction. I wished we didn’t have to move, but she had to go. Her duty to the Morgan’s seemed unending. We promised to repeat this episode, both hoping (I guess) that it would be one of many. I tried my best to explain my marital situation. Naddisha disclosed very delicate information about herself. We had a series of playful and blissful encounters between the sheets, over dinner, at the cinema and travelling down to the north coast to stay at Village Greene for our weekend rendezvous.
Village Greene was a middle-class gated residential community on the outskirts of St. Ann’s Bay town centre. Regarding the delicate information disclosed to me, I thought about the temptation of disclosure since it may provide rather illuminating clarity on what happened later.
However, I have chosen to take the more dignified position to keep details to myself, as it would be a loving and respectful choice. It did not matter what she had told me; literally, hardly anything mattered. Her past was her past. Mine was not virtuous, admirable, nor glorious. Of all things, I was an embarrassed churchman. The details of that make for a good drama script.
I was falling for her rapidly, and I had no reason to believe it was one-sided. Everyone speaks the language of love on a particular frequency – the person’s method of giving and mode of reception. Mine has always to give; the most profound gift would be of myself; once my heart is inclined, the conditionality is removed. The world has become so twisted that an empath must be more cautious. Giving can be labelled stupidity. I did not have to search for ways to make the statement,
“Naddisha, I care for you deeply.”
My abilities to say that orally were not limited, as I find it to be the (apparent) case of many Jamaican men – the proverbial saying ‘he is a man of few words’ was never used to describe me. Yet, I was a quiet and unassuming little man, so calm that you could easily pass by and not even notice I was there. Yet when I spoke in the chosen forum, it would command attention. A little paradoxical in a sense; I could be talkative, but I was quiet, not extremely shy, but reserved.
Yet, there was another inner search that prodded at my mind and heart. I questioned the integrity of her claim that her work extended to taking care of Morgan’s children and her being like part of the family. Something did not sit right in the domain of my inner consciousness. So, I started asking questions, at first subtle, then more assertive, and direct. “So Nads, why do we have to be so cautious about them knowing about me?”
Her responses would come with varying degrees of frail rationality. “Well, Dee, they are Christians … you know … and I am not so sure if they are comfy with me having a boyfriend.” At times, it would be premised that it was best to be introduced later rather than sooner. The questions still lingered. One day, I decided that I would not be parking a few yards from her workplace when picking her up. I would be stopping by at the office, on the outside, to wait on her.
As far as I was concerned, she was not a child, and I being a grown man, would not hide myself in any corner. A mature woman once said to me: “You seemed to like them young,” with a tint of accusation in her voice. I replied, “You figured out the obvious?” She snarled, and I followed with, “But I keep it above the bars of legality.” Naddisha agreed to my assumption of boldness, but I knew it was not without some measure of reservation. So, I picked her up a few times at her workplace, careful to avoid parking on the premises but close enough. I knew the ‘family’ business owners would begin to take notice.
As predicted, they did. First, it was Mr. Morgan: “Naddisha, who is that likkle magga man that keeps stopping at the gate, a yuh him come for?” He shouted her name as some bosses usually do in a tone that seemed obsessed with wanting to communicate who was in charge. The term ‘likkle magga man’ to translate in standard English would be ‘little meagre/slim man,’ a mildly vulgar remark meant for being condescending.
“Yes Sir, he is my friend,” she said with some level of trepidation. They shot other questions about who I was, how old I was, what I did for work or business, etc.
Then one evening, in the presence of the wife, they decided they would make her a captive audience to further the interrogation process on her newfound little man. Without question, social media tools were by then a favourite for would be FBI agents. I deliberately chose to limit my social media footprint to Facebook only. Although I was not prepared to embrace ‘old man’ status too soon, neither was I inclined to stretch myself to platforms such as Twitter, Instagram, and others where the primarily young had migrated. The only exception would be my LinkedIn account for my career and business.
They commanded her to bring up my Facebook profile, where they had a feast with their searching eyes. That did not matter much to me. The most damaging truth they could dis- cover was that I was married. I could not care less; she already knew. In front of his wife, Mr. Morgan commented that I seemed like a fairly decent chap. She didn’t stay. Then he was able to disclose his true colours at her parting.
“Hey Nads, you man a one likkle nerd!” He said it with a cynical chuckle, then initiated his move to, in a manner of speaking, ‘beat his chest’ to satisfy his inflated ego that he was still the alpha man. I do not fix myself into the absurdity of a classification – I know this attitude of mine annoys the shit out of some. She was devastated. I could see right through her without knowing the details. I tried to do a surgical extraction there and then, but it was too painful for her. Even without her disclosure, I could sense that she had an unpleasant episode. I tried to be gentle, but the gnawing in my soul was more substantial than the desire to preserve the under three months of the relationship. Even at the dear expense of possibly losing her, I had to understand what was happening.
So, one evening into the fourth month, I became rather adamant and aggressive in my quest. I told her in no uncertain terms that I wanted her. I was growing to love her, but if she didn’t level with me and tell me what was amiss, we should just end what we had. She went silent for about three minutes, but it seemed more like three hours to me. “Talk to me, Naddisha,” I blurted out. Then she immediately burst into tears. She was being pressured.
I hugged her gently and toned it down to a whisper, trying to hide my anxiety from her. “Naddisha, please tell me … you can tell me anything.”
She disclosed that she had told Mr. Morgan the details of what she had said to me about her past. Then after some hesitant pauses, she dropped the bomb. Mr. Morgan was allegedly using her for sexual favours as a basis of her employment. He approached with seeming kindness by buying her lunch and giving her little gifts and tokens.
Then it escalated. Often, they were alone in the office, especially on late evenings when she was asked to review tender documents. He was also interested in exploring the delicate parts of her feminine anatomy. I clarified whether it was with her consent or, more accurately, if that was what she wanted. She started crying again. She felt trapped. As a poor young lady from the country, she tried to keep her job but felt so disgusted at him wanting her to do the extra-curricular activities.
This was especially true of the ‘clean-up’ job he got in the habit of asking of her. His demand became more prevalent after he knew of me. On the one hand, he hated the idea of her having another man when in his mind, he had her as his little servant girl to do his kingly bidding. On the other hand, he grappled for a means or basis to get rid of me without too much collateral damage to himself or his business. Hence, jerking off in her oral cavity was his sick method of having the upper hand in the game, and he tried his best to impose that experience on her when he surmised I was going to come for her. I was utterly disgusted at the thought. She was in deep emotional pain. She had to look in Mrs. Morgan’s face, bearing the private shame at the same time. Somehow, Mr. Morgan influenced his wife to latch on to the idea that Naddisha had become progressively less available since her newfound lover. He calculated his strategy to increase pressure on her by creating such a smokescreen, hoping that Naddisha would buckle under the pressure, get rid of the little man, and things would return to delightful normal.
I was tempted to walk away from the situation. Deep down, though, my heart would not have allowed it unless I sensed she wanted to remain in a mess. You see, in some ways, I am the kind of sentimental man that most Jamaican men would perhaps label as stupid. Mainly the type that would be prone to kill women and kill themselves for less than ‘that.’ Yet, what their limited minds think is okay – I will gradually reveal why many of these men are weak and immature. At one point, I even suggested confronting him directly. “Hell, no Donovan, he carries a gun yuh nuh.” That didn’t frighten me. I had a licensed firearm, and I was a pretty good shooter. I was smarter than that. It took me some time to learn the pattern of applying my cerebral capacity over my emotional aspect to ensure success – that way, I always win or avoid some trouble.
I reminded her I had one myself, but it was just my hurt ego screaming with disgust. I was more than wise enough to conclude that the outcome of such a confrontation would hardly lead to a win for me either way. Besides, this was corrupt Jamaica – a dual system of justice. One kind for the haves and a less favourable one for the have-nots. In my case, I was having but not enough. If I drew late in a gunfight, and he went to court as the victor, he was deep-pocketed enough to buy out the case many times over. Whether I was in the right or not would be inconsequential to the outcome of the matter! Any overinflated dummy can call me a ‘claffy,’ but they can keep the title for giving away their lives as ‘circus clown.’ As I intend to do, kill me for disclosing my truth, which will be an honourable death for me.
As I reasoned intimately with her, I could see she needed all the formidable support she could get. If I had left her in the situation, sure another man would come along, but he would probably enjoy himself and move on, especially if he did better than catch feelings for her. I had to encourage her to stand up on her own two feet. I assured her that I would be there for her if the worst happened. Knowing her fear of job loss, I would provide for her until she was back on her feet. No, I am not dumb to consider this a relational investment, but if I care, I genuinely care. Interpret it as you please.
It was with internal trembling; she accepted my assurance. Like a tiger sizing up its prey, Mr. Morgan watched her from the ajar door of his cramped office.
“Naddisha come here to me,” he commanded, holding down his head as if being occupied with the documents on his desk.
She knew what that meant. It was 7:35 pm. He told her to turn off the office lights on her way in. A remarkably similar encounter happened five days before when I picked her up. If a girl refuses to kiss you, young men go easy; it may be for a good reason. These days romance and tenderness are dead or getting there anyway. He spewed his lust in her mouth, which she spat on the office floor, and she had to clean it up as he exited to clean up himself. She then brushed her teeth and washed her mouth repeatedly, but no amount of vigour could erase the stain on her psyche. Some of us pretend like these things don’t happen to our girlfriends and wives, past or present. God forbid our daughters and even church sisters too. Okay, Saint Dick and Sister Jane, I said ‘some,’ but it happens, so get real.
With trembling, she went in.
“I said come here to me.” He gazed at her with annoyance. “How can I help you, sir?” She tried to sound and act
“Look here girl, cut the bullshit and come kneel down in front of me.”
She said, “No!” Erupting in tears, she said, “Mr. Morgan, I thank you for helping me with the job when I needed it. I still do, but you are ruining my life.”
His snared conscience was not altogether dead, and he felt like a lump of excretion for the moment of her rejection. On the other hand, she was learning to stand up for herself and stand ready to die with what was left of her dignity, as suggested by the legendary calypso performer, Singing Sandra.
He was silent. He sat there with his overextended gut almost hanging over the lid of the desk. “Come here right now, me say.” He was trying his best to sound decisive.
She repeated her denial of his request, then added, “I have a boyfriend, and he is waiting.” She slowly packed away stuff, waiting to hear his terrible verdict, but he said nothing. He watched her with disdain walking towards the waiting vehicle as she went through the door. He braced back into his executive chair, angry that his sensual desire did not get fulfilled in its occasional indulgence.
Shawn Morgan decided that he had to initiate plan B. After all, it was already partly activated by the employment of another young lady who was less competent and with lower educational capability than Naddisha. Her presence was hardly justified. Naddisha had to be training her anyway, and her attention span was only more slightly developed than a twelve-year-old. The girl was prone to errors which both Mr. and Mrs. Morgan laid at the feet of Naddisha. Her presence facilitated Shawn Morgan’s plot with devilish stealth for her dismissal. Little did he know Naddisha had now encountered one that operated like a heat-seeking missile. Either you destroy it or kill the target, but it shall navigate to the intended purpose.
The Morgan’s practiced using Naddisha to run ad hoc errands. Sending out Naddisha was one of the significant convenient delights of Shawn’s wife. When they paid her, they would stretch their cash flow at her expense by asking Naddisha to purchase small incidental items (for them or the children). Then they would choose to replenish at some convenient point. Of course, in truth, they didn’t need to do this. The business was lucrative enough to afford them an upper-middle-class family status, but Mr. Morgan arranged it for his convenient manipulative agenda.
I realized that the seemingly respectful family that Nads was so ‘blessed’ to have met, and become a part of, was not so saintly at all. Another aspect of his plot was to pit the two young ladies against each other, but in the latter part, they started to side with the girl to keep an eye on Naddisha. Opportunities that presented themselves were craftily used. Shawn’s wife lacked the intuitive capabilities that most Jamaican women (especially the older ones) seem to possess naturally. Here we prove again that pursuing or even having an education can sometimes reflect extraordinarily little on actual mental abilities. Mrs. Morgan was going to school doing some business course. My access to some of her work by way of a thumb drive Naddisha loaned to me proved she was of unremarkable intellect. She was not a dunce but not a remarkable scholar.
Shawn could easily use his ‘big brain’ on her far more effectively than his big gut allowed him to use the small head below his waist. Even his mother-in-law was apt to warn her daughter that it seemed that there was something fishy going on between Shawn and Naddisha. Poor wifey. She was young, naïve, and a little older than Naddisha but already with two young children. Meeting and getting married to Shawn was the dream of a lifetime for a poor St. Catherine country girl. She was blinded. Shawn had the cloth drawn firmly over her eyes, leading her where he wanted.
She would do well by keen effort, but she was not particularly brilliant. The best she could do was try her hand at some business course at one of the relatively expensive universities in Jamaica at the time, as a means of escaping the likes of UWI or Utech which were less compromising on the academic requirements. No condemnation to the non-traditional. You start somewhere, build a reputation, and grow, especially if you can find small niches you can become good at. This improvement method can apply to both organizations and individuals by using the proper sacrificial steps as appropriate.
He told his wife to send some funds to Naddisha’s account to purchase office supplies. The plot thickened. He knew there was a feverish indifference between the two girls. So, he told his wife to ask the other young lady to take the money (or otherwise) Naddisha’s card to make the purchase. Simultaneously, he as- signed a couple of tasks to Naddisha, with project crashing urgency. His wife called. “Let Terry-Ann have the $20,000 I send to your account.” Naddisha could not leave. When he realized his wife had called, he flew out of his office and bellowed over her head that she better complete the stuff.
The stupid Terry-Ann girl, the next pawn on the chessboard, secretly called Mrs. Morgan under the instruction, “If she doesn’t give you the card nor the money, call and tell me.”
Naddisha was adamant that she would not give this girl her bank card, nor would she leave her duties to go down the road and draw the money from the ATM. There was now a check on the chessboard.
Knowing all of this, Shawn called his wife, and after listen- ing to her venom on how difficult Naddisha had become since of late, he replied. “Hun, you are a director in the business. Come down and terminate her employment.” He stepped out of the office and off the compound.
Naddisha and I discussed the day’s events. It was a sad and painful moment. We both saw the movie. I told her to brace herself for the worst. We knew the dirty bomb was about to be dropped. As predicted, Mrs. Morgan came down the following morning, puffing like a little pig. She called Naddisha into Shawn’s office and made a short discourse about how her work has deteriorated since she allowed her personal life to get in the way. It ended with, “You are fired, Ms. Jarrett. You can pack your things from now and leave.”
For a moment, she felt a sense of exfiltrating spike of power she had hitherto not experienced. It was her first act of termination, and at only 26 years old, it felt potent. Regardless, she saw something undefined, woman to woman, as she looked on Naddisha with a fixed focus of their eyes locking. Something that registered deep in her soul made her uncomfortable, but she could not bring it to the surface of her awareness. “I fired her, hun.”
“Oh okay, well, you did what you had to do, babe,” he said, trying to sound unattached. She laid there beside him. As the troubling thoughts of that look in Naddisha’s eyes chiselled at her conscience, she attempted to initiate and prolong a conversation. Shawn Morgan snapped angrily at her. “Look, I am tired. I need to rest.” He drifted off, but she remained disturbed in her thoughts for some time. The awakening of her feminine intuition was just about to make its initial sprout. Would she ever learn or would she learn a little too late?