I took three sips and poured the rest down the damn drain. There ain't nothin' worse than warm beer, especially on a hot night. It was Danielle's from two weeks ago; as usual she forgot to put it in the fridge. She loves beer; I hate beer. That's just the beginning of our differences, but I still miss her. I still love her—still got her beer in my cabinet.
I lit the cherry-smelling incense, and thought about what I was going to do tonight or even tomorrow. OK Tracy, you should be enjoying a play somewhere, tongue kissing to some nighttime R&B jams, holding hands on the Ferris wheel, or just sharing an ice cream cone. Maybe the Taste of Chicago is still going on this weekend—wouldn't mind some grilled corn on the cobb ... .
Where is my little black phone book when I need it? It's been two weeks. Time to let folks know that Tracy Taylor is available and free now! There should be a few ex-lovers on the scene, lurking around for the prime opportunity to rekindle the fire. I still got a lotta' fire left too. I could go down the hall right now and have a special visit with Tamera. Last time she came over to my apartment, she wasn't wearing anything but a silky robe, and staring at my breasts. Needless to say, Danielle put an end to those visits quickly.
Tamera is cute but she's always wearing pajamas, or clothes that resemble sleep wear—even house shoes—outside. I can't see myself with a woman whose only enjoyment is lying around her apartment all day with occasional visits to the liquor store. However, she can cook a mean pot of greens. Then, there's Derrick from work. He's good-looking, but hell I haven't been with a man in over six years. After Danielle, I don't even have that same appetite. No one else can feel me up the way she did sexually. Now, I've got to go back to square one. Look for someone else.
I hate bars, and I don't really like announcing my single status. I have to be careful not to attract people who just want me for my long butterscotch-colored legs, or want me to ride them around everywhere in my new SUV. Not to mention, the tatas. Hell, even at thirty-three; I still have the breasts of a twenty-four-year old. Yes, I've got to be careful.
At any rate, I'm Free to date, have sex, and just be out all night without anyone asking me where I've been or where I'm going. FREE. I should be happy. After all, Danielle is probably not even in Chicago this weekend—maybe in Africa some damn where, or jet skiing in the Caribbean.
Finding someone new will not be a problem. My grandmother raised me to be a lady. That's how I conduct myself—a lady in public, but a freak in the bedroom. This baby girl can cook in the kitchen and the bedroom. I work, I'm educated, my nails and hair are done every week, and I wear the finest dresses from Michigan Avenue boutiques. I look, smell, and taste good. So, why didn't Danielle want to live with me? Why wouldn't she want to make me her life partner? This is the thanks I get ... . Five years of traveling together, attending family barbeques, loving only her, cooking, and taking care of her when she was ill, and even loaning her money when she'd get into an occasional bind. This is the damn thanks I get—left in this hot box of a condo with a broken air conditioner, warm beer, and a '70s porno video.
It wouldn't feel so sad if I weren't on vacation. Being off work only drives home the unbearable fact that I'm alone. But it was time to move on. What else could I do? I wanted a commitment ceremony, a 5-carat diamond ring, and a child or at least a dog. She needed to repair her credit so we could eventually buy a town house on the south side. Yes, I wanted more. Danielle wanted to continue living in her high-priced studio up north, and doing the same thing over and over like we were still in college.
One night, I gave her an impromptu ultimatum during dinner, and that was it. In two weeks, no calls of last-minute contemplation. No e-mails of apology. No hot phone sex. No visits. Nothing! Maybe if it had been a couple years, I would've been the one to call her to rethink my decision to 'move on.' But five years? Maybe she found someone else. She's a big freak—a Scorpio. Maybe I wasn't woman enough for her ... Nonsense, no one could ever get me to seriously believe that!
The Cumulus clouds foreshadow an up-coning storm. Good. It's OK being inside when it's raining. I'll just buy some wine and chill tonight—listen to jazz music. It's drizzling now. I turned on the stereo just in time for Ramsey Lewis' voice, 'And now for the Sounds of Brazil ... ' I stretched out on the sofa near the window; listening to the rain ... Droplets snuck in softly pass the screen. I love warm wet rain. MMMMMMMM, this is nice. The phone rings. I look at the caller ID: Danielle Blackwell. 'Took you long enough,' I said out load. Exhaling, I answered it on the third ring.
'Hello?' I said in an unaffected tone.
'I miss you.' She said clearing her throat. 'Are you busy?'
'Not really, just cooling out. What's up?' At this point, trickles of sweat are sprouting on my back.
'I was wondering if we could talk. I need to see you.'
I paused before I answered. 'Well, I haven't changed my mind about the things I want out of a relationship ... .'
She interrupted. 'Listen, I don't do diamonds because I don't support slavery, but I have something better for you ... for us. Let me come over—you'll love it.'
Hell, I didn't know what to say. What could possibly be better than a rock on my finger?
'OK Danielle, but this better be good. And don't worry about stopping at the store—your beer is still here.' We laughed. I missed this.
The rain lifted; there were no bright skies or birds chirping, but I felt good. Even if it storms tonight—it'll be ok.
Hana Anderson was raised in Hyde Park. She has worked in the social services community for many years, and is making a transition into the theatre community with her on-going staged readings. Look for the up-coming production of 'Portrait of Patrick' this year.
