Page 1 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

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frankie

3:17 A.M.

Saturday

I’d never been as wet as this, and I ain’t talking about this pussy.

I lifted my head and sweat dripped from my hair to my shoulders. I frowned, sucked in a deep breath, and sat up slowly so I wouldn’t wake my son, who was sleeping soundly beside me.

Well… beside me was a stretch. Malik always ended up tucked at my side so snugly that he may as well be in sync with my breathing. He was a mama’s boy, and that was my fault; but that was a story for another day.

He shifted when he felt the warmth from my body escape, but thankfully, slumber settled him back into the sheets. I exhaled a deep breath, still frowning as I swiped my shoulders with my hand.

It was sweat.

What the actual fuck? I’d been forty years old all of two weeks and was already feeling signs of peri. Perimenopause, that is. I tried to deny it. There was no way. In my mind and spirit, I still felt thirty-two. I wasn’t no old bitch. As far as I was concerned, the word “auntie” didn’t apply to me. I still had my Megan’s knees, and it was fuck everybody who thought otherwise.

But then, it was the pain and stiffness in my shoulders, which I considered could be arthritis. But one of my best girlfriends, Naomi Blackford, said, “It sounds like ‘Frozen Shoulder’; it’s a peri symptom.”

Bullshit. I ain’t got no peri symptoms. She smirked, drunk her tea, and ignored my outburst. Then it was the way I was cursing out Malik’s father. Like he was a dirty dick nigga I never wanted to see again. And truthfully, our relationship was situational in nature, so it wasn’t like he was a guy I’d fallen in love with and got cheated on. But still, I raged whenever we spoke to the point where he asked me in the most concerning tone ever, “Frankie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, fuck nigga, are you okay?” … it was at that moment that I realized I wasn’t okay. Every request, question, or comment from him seemed to bother the fuck outta me. But there was no real reason why. I considered that I was just tired of being responsible; I needed a break. Our child was disabled with special needs; it was a lot on me at times. And even though that was true, it didn’t explain my severe outbursts.

“It sounds like a peri symptom.” That was Journey, my other best friend. I’d turned my glare on her, and she raised her hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. We all go through it when we get this age.”

“This age…” I’d mocked. I was annoyed that my friends spoke as if we were 100 years old. I wasn’t prepared for the changes my body would make so soon. I mean, in your twenties, you were young, having fun, and figuring life out. Then boom, thirties came in swinging and you were smarter but just now getting your footing in life. When you finally felt like you had arrived at some stability, pow! You’re forty, and your body was betraying you like mine was now.

“Fuck,” I murmured. This hot flash was intense. Surely, this was a peri symptom. I could no longer deny what was happening to me. But to be sure, I was making an appointment first thing Monday morning to see my OBGYN. I’d researched enough to know hormone replacement therapy could help me with this if I was indeed in perimenopause. But until then, nobody better talk to me because I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.

I left the bed and trudged to the thermostat, taking the temperature from 73 degrees to 69. I hoped I wasn’t freezing my baby, but I would keep him covered. I couldn’t bear this heat much longer, or I would become a puddle of sweat on the floor.

Back at the bed, I sat there waiting for the air to kick on, and right as I went to curse, cool air sailed through the vent above my head. I exhaled and relaxed my shoulders. I needed to get back to sleep; I needed my energy for this Zumba video I was recording in the morning. But even knowing this, I knew the remaining night would be a restless one.

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

I threw my arms overhead and hit the next count with my hips as sweat slid between my shoulder blades and beneath my sports bra.

“Come on, y’all! Don’t give me that tired face!”

I grinned at the camera as I kept up the pace, but truth be told, I was almost out of steam. Even with the air conditioning blasting at its full potential, the heat from my workout assaulted me. What was usually a pixie cut was now a flat, sweaty strand of a short cut on my head. I’d long discarded the sticky shirt from my first set and was now in my sports bra and workout shorts. None of my discomfort mattered in the moment. On camera, I had energy for days, and as an award-winning Zumba instructor, I had to keep up the façade until the very end.

The music blasted through the speakers in the corner of my home studio, the bass rattling faintly through the floor. I stepped forward, back, two quick hip thrusts, then snapped my fingers toward the camera.

“Right!”

My sneakers squeaked against the floor.

“Left!”

Another turn.

“Now give me four!”

I counted it out with my fingers, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

Three.