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E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4/16/07
TIME: 9:47 AM
Girl, where are you this morning?????? Are you even coming to work? I NEED YOU! I have to tell you what happened this weekend with my Sexy Morehouse Man! We were supposed to go for dinner on Saturday, but something happened with his wife, so he suggested we meet to watch the game on Sunday (I guess she doesn’t like sports like most women—you know how that goes). Anyway, I swear I fell in love with this man. He is EVERYTHING the woman at my church said he would be . . . and more. She was right; we’re perfect for each other. He’s nice, funny, smart, successful, and fine as hell. What more could a woman want? I wanted to jump his bones right there at the bar! But I have to keep playing nice.
Speaking of which, after I got a few drinks in Jamison, he admitted that he hasn’t had sex with his wife in like a month! I’m trying not to pass judgment, but what kind of woman is that? How could she resist his fine ass? If I had him, he’d get it like every night. And twice on Sunday! All that money he brings home and all Ms. Perfect can do is hold back in the bedroom. If she don’t want him, I’ll take him. Anyway, what should I do? Hit me back ASAP! I NEED YOU!!!!!
P.S. He kissed me when he walked me to my car! OK . . . he was drunk and it was on the cheek, but he did linger there for a while. Am I being trifling? I didn’t make him do anything.
E-MAIL TRANSMISSION
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: 4/16/07
TIME: 10:15 AM
WHAT! I can’t believe I’m missing this. Dumb-ass Piper sent me to the Kennesaw office because one of the paralegals here went on maternity leave, so I’m helping them catch up. I guess I’ll have to get the rest of the Sexy Morehouse Man story when I get back downtown on Monday. This might call for drinks! Sounds juicy.
And you know how I feel about the unhappily married folks.... If she won’t treat him right, someone else will. And why not you?
There’s nothing trifling about it, Coreen. It’s simple mathematics. We’re in our thirties and there aren’t exactly millions of available black men out there. Even Oprah said it. Not ones with degrees and million-dollar businesses! The man already told you his old lady doesn’t respect him. And now he’s not getting any ass! They won’t last.
Who wants to be around all that? It’s only a matter of time before he cheats anyway. You know how men do. I’m not saying you should cheat with
him and be some type of one-night-stand whore, but maybe you’re the kind of woman he should be with in the first place. I don’t see why you should miss out on a man you really like just because he has a piece of paper connecting him to another woman from when he was like 22. I say have some fun. You deserve it, girl!
Love ya,
dablackannanicole
P.S. The real question about the kiss was whether he licked you! You know I like my men freaky.
P.P.S. Who is the woman at your church?
Ain’t No Party Like a Buckhead Party . . .
It’s funny how happy days can go by so quickly and sad days seem to evolve minute to minute like a perpetual Groundhog Day. By the time Marcy’s house was ready for Damien’s party and I was up in the guest room trying to figure out which one of Marcy’s old dresses I’d put on if I decided to venture outside the room, I realized that the worst day of my life was taking forever to end. Maybe it was because it began with me in the car at 5:35 AM. Maybe it was because my heart was breaking and drama seemed to intend for this to be a slow process. Either way, I was done with Friday and praying for the same Friday one year ago, when things at least seemed perfect, to somehow find me again. This process might not have been as difficult if Marcy hadn’t had most of her “big days” when she was pregnant with Milicent in the summer. Most of the dresses were pastel and the only black one had a plunging neckline. I firmly believed that pregnant women shouldn’t show cleavage and my cleavage was at an all-time high.
Now if I was my regular size, I would’ve tried on all of the dresses and picked the best one, but putting on one dress at eight months was a hassle in and of itself. It took way too much energy to wiggle in and wiggle out.
Aside from my clothing obstacles, the other important factor slowing me down was the fact that I wasn’t sure I wanted to see anyone at the party. In addition to being sad and in an utter state of shock, I just didn’t feel like talking to anyone and hearing them ask, “Where’s Jamison?” This question alone would send me into tears, for sure. But, a master of gossip, Marcy was right . . . appearances were everything and absence would be just as bad. While normal people might think that I was not there because of the baby coming, everyone knew that we wouldn’t miss it—Damien and Marcy were our best friends. And that was enough for them. In this world, people love to contrive their own renditions of reality, and it was better to be there to catch poor gossip in the making. I learned that the hard way with Marcy in college. When we lived in the dorm our first year, I’d sit on my bed across from her and listen to people come into the room telling story after story about this girl and that girl. The stories would change several times throughout the hour and by the time Marcy got on the phone to spread the word to the next dorm, it would change again. I’d had my share of this in prep school, but Spelman was on a whole different level. Gossip shaped and shredded lives. It was the undercurrent that pushed college life along. Luckily, I had the wave maker in my dorm room.
“You gonna come out?” Marcy said, poking her head in the room.
I’d managed to pull the black dress over my head, but as I predicted my breasts looked like I was expecting an entire litter of babies to feed.
“Whoa, stripper lady!” Marcy joked.
“Very funny,” I laughed. “I don’t know; I’m still contemplating it. I think it might be too soon.... But I also need something to take my mind off of everything,” I looked in the mirror at my puffy eyes, “so I can stop crying . . .”
