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I watch him grab his hamstring and press his head against the headrest.
“Open the door and stretch it,” I suggest.
“In a sec. I can’t move right now.” His face displays the discomfort and tightness of his muscle spasm. I feel sorry that there’s nothing I can really do. He grunts more. I quickly put on my undergarments, wrap my dress, exit the vehicle, and race to the driver’s side. I open the door and he practically falls out. I try not to laugh, but here he stands naked outside of the SUV in broad daylight.
“Bishop, you gotta pull yourself together and get dressed.”
“Woman, you don’t understand. I can’t until this shit goes away.”
“Woman”? Who does he think he’s talking to? I turn and leave his ass leaning alongside the Escalade and climb back into the truck. That did it for me, no more. I hear the sound of screeching wheels like a car is steadily coming up the ramp. I see Bishop fighting to get back in the Escalade. I feel sorry for his ass and gather his clothes and button his shirt while he puts on his pants. We see the yellow lights reflect off the concrete wall as the security car approaches further up the ramp. I do a final check in the visor mirror.
“How do I look?”
“Fine,” Bishop replies.
The windows unfog just in the nick of time. The security car approaches us slowly. A well-fit Caucasian man sits behind the wheel. Bishop lowers his window and places both hands on the steering wheel so they are visible to the guard.
“Is there a problem here?” the guard asks, looking across Bishop’s seat at me.
“No problem, sir,” Bishop answers. The guard looks at me again like he needs reassurance. So, I give a slight wave, indicating everything is fine.
“Well, you can’t loiter here,” the security guard informs with a condescending tone.
“I understand,” Bishop complies.
“You folks have a nice day.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Bishop mumbles. He then puts the Escalade into gear and drives away. He reaches across the console and holds my hand. Before I get a word out of my mouth, he kisses the back of my hand and I say nothing. Sometimes you just have to let a moment be.
We arrive at George’s pickup spot twenty-five minutes late. Bishop lowers his window and instructs George to get in. He looks miffed. I know he’s going to talk about this all the way to work. He opens the rear passenger door and gets in admiring the SUV. Bishop watches him through the rearview mirror and tries to take George’s mind off of the tardiness.
“You like my new ride?”
“Damn that. B, man, where the hell have you been?”
Bishop smiles and puts the car in “drive” and looks at me.
“Oh, I see, late on the lady’s behalf. Good mornin,’ Connie.
“Mornin,’ George.”
“Tell me something, Connie. Why do women always take too long getting ready in the morning?”
“George, before you get started, I was on time.” George looks at Bishop with frowned brows and asks, “Well, B, if she was on time, why the hell you twenty-five minutes late getting my ass?”
“George, man, ease up. We’ll be at work in no time.”
“Yeah right,” George snarls as he stares out of the window. He settles in but just like I suspect, he questions Bishop the entire way to work.
The day zooms by. Thank the Lord; it’s five o’clock on a Friday. I can’t wait to leave Clark and Howard—no more contracts to write and review, no more conference calls, no more negotiation meetings, and no more filling-in for boss lady, who I’m still reluctant to say will be back in the office on Monday. Nothing left to do now except take my final ride home with Bishop and George.
We all meet at the car in the garage at five-oh-five. This time on the way home, George entertains us about the latest gun laws in Congress. Being an attorney, I debate with him about some of his wacky points of view. The ride home is full of conversation, probably more than Bishop wants this time of day. But that’s okay—after today he won’t have to hear George and I go a
t each other anymore.
We arrive at the Lenox Marta subway station and George exits the SUV. I must admit I won’t miss riding with him.
“Later, B. Later, little Miss Missy.”
