The First Time I Met Your Mother
It was the summer of '69, and she caught me without armor.
Character-driven Fiction | Short Story | ❤️ Like It
The front door swung open, and every conversation came to a jarring stop like a needle yanked off a spinning record. She stepped into the fété. Her massive afro, a halo of dark, wild power, seemed to catch and trap the dim light of the room.
My mind raced to categorize her and came up with the word, Goddess. Even the way she held her cowrie-beaded clutch — casual but commanding — made it clear she belonged anywhere she chose to be. A barely-there scarlet red mini-dress clung to her curves, skimming her shoulders, teasing the small swell of her chest, and stopping just shy of scandal. It hugged her in a way that felt like it broke every rule — and made my nineteen-year-old self glad it did.
Something flared in me, sharp and undeniable, tearing through defenses I hadn’t even known were there. It hit like a rogue wave, leaving me stripped and exposed, raw in a way that was equal parts thrill and terror. My chest tightened, heat blooming low and fast, and I suddenly felt like I’d been caught without armor — bare, vulnerable, already ruined.
I was confused because I was feeling things that were altogether new.
What the hell is this?
A hint of a smile touched her face as she scanned the room.
Her eyes.
Eyes are paired sensory organs that detect light and enable vision. My brain, scrambling, latched onto Biology — my favorite subject. Reliable, logical, familiar. But at this moment, that clinical definition wasn’t enough. Not even close.
Dark as night, smoldering with something molten beneath the surface. Her gaze seemed to burn through the haze of the party lights. My throat went dry. My pulse flipped and twisted in a way I prayed wasn’t written all over my face.
Then she saw me.
Those eyes locked onto my wide-open stare.
That was it.
She didn’t just see me — she assessed me. Measured me. Like I was one more thing in the room, something to conquer or dismiss.
Me? I wasn’t used to being sized up, not like that. Girls said I was gorgeous. They’d whisper this to each other and then giggle like I wasn’t supposed to hear. Sure, they came to my parties for the vibe, but mostly to watch me work the decks. The way I moved, the way I spun records, the way I knew exactly when to drop the beat — they ate it up.
Tall. Slim. Cut just enough to turn heads. I knew what I was working with and wasn’t shy about it. Maybe that’s why I carried myself the way I did. Shoulders back, chin up, like I was untouchable. Overconfident? Maybe. But it came easy when you had a mom like mine.
She treated me like her prince — too well if you asked my father. “You can’t raise a man like that and expect him to live in the real world,” he’d grumble, pacing the kitchen in his work boots. He said it all the time, shaking his head like I’d already failed some invisible test of manhood.
My father was always on me about the way I lived — too many girls, too little focus. “You can’t juggle women like you juggling records,” he’d say, his disappointment thick in every word. He wanted me to settle down, to find one woman I could build a future with.
“Pick sense from nonsense, boy,” he’d bark. “You need somebody who’ll stand by you — not these girls you spinning ‘round like you on a turntable.”
To him, my life wasn’t serious enough. And love? Love wasn’t wild or passionate — it was practical. Stable. Rooted in responsibility. “Stop playing games,” he’d tell me. “Find a woman you can bring home. One who’ll build with you, not tear you down.”
And a “real job” — that’s what he wanted for me most of all. Something with a steady paycheck and a title you could explain in five words. Not a DJ, not a party-thrower. Not whatever this life I was carving out for myself was supposed to be.
But right then, standing there and gripping the record jacket like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground, I wasn’t thinking about him or his lectures. I wasn’t thinking about a real job or a steady future.
I was thinking about this woman who just strutted into my world. I felt like her five-second-long examination of me peeled away all the bravado I wore like a second skin.
My grip tightened on the jacket of the record in my hand. Its glossy sleeve had been passed around all night, the grooves carrying the pulse of summer. But now, that smooth rhythm faded, drowned out by the thunderous pounding of my heart as her eyes held mine.
Then she smiled.
Really smiled this time. Not big, not flashy — just a slight curl of her lips, enough to send a jolt through me that hit somewhere south of my ribs.
And then, before I could think of looking away, before I could fumble for some kind of response, she started walking.
Right toward me.
And… I …rose.
© Scarlet Ibis James, 2024: All Rights Reserved.
A Delectable Taste of My Next Book
The Other Side of Love and Desire
This story features Trisha’s father whom we first met in my book, Scarlet Yearnings: Stories of Love and Desire*.
shared her feelings about my story of this little girl.
In book two, readers will see the other side of that relationship as the father comes to the painful realization of his love for Trisha’s mother too late. Importantly, readers will also experience scenes from book one from the father’s perspective, gaining insight into the devastating choices he felt compelled to make, which left Trisha wanting.
🌺 Update on Short Story Collection by Scarlet Ibis James 🌺
The story is an excerpt from that future telling—a delectable first taste, is it not?