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I slide my laptop over onto the sofa, getting up. “Ohmygod, girl, where in the hell have you been, Cuz? It’s been ages.” We hug.
“I know,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. “It’s a damn shame we don’t stay in touch. It’s so good to see you.”
“Yes, it is. Good to see you, too.” I give her another big hug, then step back, taking her in. She’s stylishly dressed in a denim dress that grazes her knee and a pair of black, four-inch ankle booties. She’s wearing a black lace front wig with strawberry blonde highlights. It’s bone-straight with baby hair around the edges, and hangs past her shoulders. “Girl, you’re looking fierce as ever. And I’m loving the do.”
“You know how I do it, boo,” she says, flinging her hair over her shoulder. “It’s the silky Yaki, girl; got it on sale for three-hundred-and-four dollars.”
Porsha cuts her eyes over at me, filling the glasses with wine. I’m sure she’s thinking what I’m thinking: Why the hell is she always wearing wigs? I don’t think I can ever recall a time when she’s worn her own hair out. Not even as a teenager. Weaves, wigs and head wraps; that’s all we’ve ever seen. Shit, now I have to wonder if she even has any hair of her own.
“And you’re wearing it well,” I say. “So how are you? What’s new? I’ve been meaning to get over to the shop but every time I plan on coming down there, I end up getting sidetracked.”
“Girl, you know I understand. But, umm, everything is everything. Things down at the salon are good. Pasha’s busy with getting ready for her wedding. And as you can see,”—she spreads her arms open—“I’m doing faaaaabulous.”
I smile, taking her all in. “So it seems. We really need to do better with staying in touch, though.”
“I know,” she says, taking a seat on the sofa. I close my laptop, moving it off the sofa and sitting it on the floor, then sit next to her. “It really makes no sense.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Persia says, waltzing in the room. Porsha hands Felecia a drink, then Persia and me.
“Yes, I am,” Felecia says lifting her glass. We follow suit. “To us.”
“To us,” Persia, Porsha and I say in unison, clinking our glasses with hers. And for the next hour we sip and chat it up about little shit. Vacation spots, the boutique, the salon, family, mutual acquaintances, and the upcoming wedding. But, outside of talk about the salon and the upcoming nuptials, she’s still very tight-lipped about anything else that has to do with Pasha.
“And I know I’m gonna see y’all at the wedding, right?” Felecia asks, downing the last bit of her wine.
“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t miss it for the world. Here, let me top you off,” Persia says as she graciously gets up and refills Felecia’s glass. A sly smirk curls her lips. We all know Felecia’s an undercover lush, so we’ll keep her glass filled until her tongue starts to loosen. In the meantime, we keep the conversation light.
“How’s Aunt Harriet doing?” Persia asks, settling back in her chair.
“Chile, Nana is Nana; still feisty as ever.”
And spewing scriptures I’m sure, I think, smiling.
Porsha asks, “Is she still forcing you and Pasha to go to church with her?”
Felecia laughs. “Girl, you already know. Every chance she gets.”
“Some things never change,” Persia replies, shaking her head, laughing with her.
“Isn’t that the truth? I love Nana dearly. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her. I try to spend as much time as I can with her.” She takes a sip from her drink, then asks how our parents are doing. I tell her they’re doing well; that they’ll be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary in November. “Wow, forty years. That’s amazing. I don’t think most couples last longer than four to six years these days.”
“Mmmph,?
?? Persia grunts, leaning up and setting her glass up on the coffee table. “You better try four to six months. You know like I do that most people in relationships are in the wrong relationships with the wrong people, trying to make it right, doing all the wrong shit.”
“Giiiiiiiiirl,” Felecia says, shaking her head, “you better preach. I don’t understand that kinda shit. I mean, if you’re with someone who you know is bringing stress into ya life, why put yourself through all the aggravation? Let that ass go.”
Persia replies, “Because misery loves company. And the fear of being alone outweighs the need for peace of mind.”
“And common damn sense,” Felecia adds.
“Speaking of relationships,” Porsha says, reaching for the pitcher of sangria and refilling her glass. “What’s up with you and your man, Miss Lady? Y’all still together?” She pours more into mine as well.
“Thanks” I tell her, taking my drink, then shifting back into my seat to get comfortable.
“Chile, Andre and I are doing wonderful. Four years strong, and still counting.”
“Wow, four years,” I say in between sips of my drink. “Time sure flies.”
