Tiffany’s Trap

She could not escape.  Why did she want to?  This was the moment that Southern girls like herself dreamed of their entire lives.  It was the purpose of all of those ridiculous Jack and Jill functions, cotillions, and every party she’d attended since she was at least thirteen years old.  Every moment of Mya Washington’s life had been specifically planned and ordered for this very moment.  She was supposed to be sitting in this very fancy Manhattan restaurant across from this well-bred pediatrician in giddy anticipation of the tiny box that he was currrently pulling out of his pocket.  Mya was 28 years old, the prime age for marriage and child rearing and here it was.  The brass ring.  Or in this case, platinum.  Though she was sure of nothing else at the moment, she was 100% sure that the box Marcus was reaching for would be from Tiffany’s and that the ring it held would be platinum.  It couldn’t have been more predictable.  Her mother would be so proud.

Sure, Mya had deviated slightly from the original script.  She had broken her family’s strong “Southern Black Ivy League” tradition by attending Temple as opposed to Spelman, Fisk, or Hampton.  She’d been a Southern Belle her entire life, and she had felt an indescribable pull toward the East Coast.  Philadelphia had been just what the doctor ordered.  Surprisingly, she’d quickly adapted to the change of pace and easily wooed the entire campus with a slightly sassier version of her natural Southern charm.  Yes, she’d pledged a sorority, but she had not followed the legacy plan her mother had mapped out for her, and opted for her mother’s rival sorority.  Her mother had initially thrown a fit, but then surrendered that she could have done much worse.  Despite her mother’s constant matchmaking efforts, Mya remained single throughout most of college.  She rather enjoyed the freedom of serial dating and did as much of it as she possibly could.   In spite of her studies in education, Mya adopted a love for fashion and kept herself styled to the nines in order to feed her desire to be a stylist.  She was supposed to become a teacher and move home to Atlanta, but she instead headed to New York City after graduation.  She didn’t pursue her teaching license, but went for a Master’s in Higher Education Administration at Columbia.  If she was going to work at a school, she at least wanted to be in charge. 

For those first few years out of college, Mya did live many of her dreams.  She used her own salary to bankroll her bills and her parents’ cash to bankroll her lifestyle of fly clothes and fun trips.  She’d been a staple at every All-Star Weekend, Superbowl Weekend, and Essence Jazz Festival through much of her twenties.  She dated at will and kept a pair of Jimmy Choos on her size 8 feet.  Her mother had been absolutely mortified until Mya turned 26 and finally began to slow down.  Two years later, Mya was settled into her career at Columbia as the Director for the Center of Multicultural Affairs and was in a committed relationship with Dr. Marcus Grey who came from a well-bred Philadelphia family. 

Now here she was, just two days after her 28th birthday, sitting across from Marcus, staring at the Tiffany’s box that sat on the table between them.  Mya felt her breath becoming short.  Her palms began to sweat.  Her mind was racing.  She took a sip of her water and tried to calm down.  What was wrong with her? Why did she feel the sudden need to run screaming out of the restaurant?  She felt trapped.  Not by her surroundings, but by the Tiffany’s box that sat on the table.  It meant that she’d have to permanently set aside the person that she had become over the last ten years and become a society woman.  A doctor’s wife.  She’d join The Links and become a slave to the opinions of women whose lives were seeped in secrets and contradictions.  She and Marcus would have children and drag them across the Tri-State for all those silly black high society functions.  After all, how else would they learn to choose their mates and friends by pedigree rather than personality?  She’d never again dance on a bar in Las Vegas, or flirt with the cute Puerto Rican bartenders in San Juan, or fly out to San Francisco just to see a concert.  Damn.  Marcus would be the last man she’d have sex with. Ever.

The shortness in Mya’s breath became nonexistent, as did her breathing.  Her heart pounded in her chest.  Her head spun.  As she tried to get up from the table, she heard was Marcus’s voice ask “What’s wrong?”  That was the last thing she heard before everything went dark and her body hit the floor.