Clearer Than Glass

                                                            Clearer Than Glass  

It was a hot Tuesday afternoon in Atlanta, Georgia. The kind of day where the sun didn’t just shine—it hovered, commanding sweat from skin and sighs from drivers stuck on I-20. At a small but busy windshield repair shop tucked between a soul food joint and a beauty supply store, the scent of fried catfish and tire rubber mingled in the air. 
 
Devonté stepped out of his dark gray 2019 Cadillac Escalade, its sleek body gleaming like gunmetal in the sun. The cracked spiderweb across the windshield looked out of place on the otherwise flawless ride—like a battle scar on royalty. Tall, dark, and built like a Moorish war king, Devonté was the kind of man who turned heads without trying. His presence carried weight—calm, unshakable, and centuries deep. He smelled like expensive oud and clean cotton—a scent that lingered, demanding a second breath. 
 
He pushed open the door to the shop’s waiting area, where the air conditioning was fighting valiantly against the Georgia heat. That’s when he saw her. 
 
Seated in a corner with her phone in one hand and a mango smoothie in the other, she looked like summertime reincarnated. Big, natural curls framed her face, and her skin glowed a deep mahogany that made the sun outside seem dull. Her curves were unapologetic, especially the way she filled out those denim shorts, but it was her energy that hit hardest—Southern belle charm with the confidence of royalty. 
 
She looked up, locking eyes with Devonté for a split second too long. Then she smirked, knowingly. 
 
“You here for a windshield, or just making the place smell like heaven?” she asked, her voice sweet and rich like molasses over cornbread. 
 
He chuckled, low and smooth. “Little bit of both.” 
 
She patted the seat next to her. “Well, good smells don’t need to stand.” 
 
He sat, grinning, feeling like he’d just walked into the start of something good. 
 
“I’m Devonté.” 
 
She smiled warmly and said, “I’m Imani.” 
 
Devonté studied her a moment, then smiled and said, “You ain’t from ‘round here… what you is?” 
 
Imani laughed, a warm, confident sound. “My mama’s Choctaw and my daddy’s Haitian and Alabama Black. I’ve got more cultures in me than this smoothie has fruit.” 
 
“Beautiful name. Fits you.” 
 
“Don’t try to be slick, Devonté. You already winning. Escalade, cologne, and that smile? You know what you doing.” 
 
He laughed again, genuinely. “Caught me.” 
 
Their conversation flowed like it had been waiting to happen—music, food, hometowns, childhood stories, favorite gas station snacks. In that little repair shop, with the buzz of drills and the occasional holler from a mechanic in the back, something unspoken passed between them. 
 
When the tech finally waved them both up, telling them their cars were ready, Devonté hesitated. 
 
“You ever let a man buy you lunch at a real soul food spot? Not one of those trendy, tricked-out places—just somewhere where the food tastes like Sunday dinner at Grandma’s?” 
 
Imani grinned, tilting her head like she already knew the answer. 
 
“Only if he promises not to talk too smooth the whole time.” 
 
He stepped closer, just enough to let her smell the mix of oud and clean again. 
 
“I’ll try my best,” he said. 
 
Imani grinned and said while semi handing him the phone. 
 
"Well put your number in my phone and I'll call you and we will schedule this date" S 
 
And with a repaired windshield and a new spark lit, they walked out into the Atlanta heat together—two souls that had found something clearer than glass.