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She shakes her head like I’m asking her to do something farfetched. “Are you done talking? I’d hate to interrupt you and get yelled at.”
I tap my fingertips on the table. It’s quite impressive how this woman gets my blood boiling. Yet and still, I’m up for the challenge – down for anything where she’s concerned. I tell her, “You have a smart mouth.”
“And it pales in comparison to yours. Are we done here?”
I don’t respond – just look at her in pure wonderment. She’s as beautiful as she was back in high school – when I was the guy who was surprised that a girl like her would say a word to me. I thought it was a joke. A prank. But her actions were genuine. Since then, she’s grown into a woman – a strong black woman – the kind I need by my side. Her features have matured – her cheeks, her nose, and her lips that beckon and vex me daily. And her curves – she’s not all skin and bones like she used to be. She has the body of a goddess. High school Quintessa is a distant memory. Her voice isn’t the same, but I love the sound of this new one, especially when she’s not ticked off at me.
“May I please leave, or was there anything further you wanted to discuss?” she asks respectfully and facetiously – a feat I don’t think anyone else can accomplish but her.
“We’re done here,” I tell her.
She immediately stands, showing off the black pantsuit she’s wearing with a red blouse beneath the jacket. Looks nice on her.
I say, “Before you go, are there any concerns you’d like to address?”
She turns around and says, “No.”
“Remember to pull the door this time.”
She snatches it open aggressively and leaves. I think I may have pissed her off. At least, she didn’t break a heel this time.
