She decided that she would wait a few days before picking up the phone again. He had already told her things that most would expect a woman to want to hear from a man. Did he really meant what he had said or was he just after “that thing”? For the third day in a row, her phone rang. She had won his words, but what about his everything else?
Her time was coming to a close once again. She placed her pen on the desk and closed her notebook. For a few precious moments and in a notebook page’s worth of carefully chosen words she released all of the cares of the previous weeks. The weight had been temporarily lifted until it was time for another ink fix. No matter how many times other humans expressed their love for her, nothing could top her sacred hideout in her notebook.
Opening her tired, heavy eyes, she took in the view of the ceiling. He told her that he loved her without any prompting. Did he really mean it? Maybe. All she knew was that her brain was in overdrive trying to figure out a more ideal scenario and her heart was unwilling to to be vulnerable to foolishness once more.
He asked to join her at her favorite hangout spot. The place was her home away from home. She knew his name, his passwords, date of birth and other vital information, all of it given freely. Perhaps extending an invitation wasn’t the worst thing she could do. She’d opened up more sensitive places already.
She glanced at the time. How much of it did she have to waste? She almost wished he would lie to her because as much as she desired the truth, it would be so much easier to drop him if he were a liar. Life was so much simpler when all she had to worry about was being tired from working all of the time. Now, her psyche was being put to work.
It was so offensive it made her cry. She’d wondered if buttermilk could really go bad. Now she knew the answer for sure. Though some things were rotted and fermented to desired states for consumption, there were some already sour that could spoil even more. So much for the buttermilk pound cake she planned.
She hated the cleanup required after frying food. Cleaning up and disposing of the leftover cooking grease was enough to deter her from doing it on a regular basis. The Brothers Johnson’s Strawberry Letter 23 playing in the background in harmony with the sizzling catfish grease coupled with the smell of hot sauce, collard greens, and cornbread took her to a place she rarely revisited. She inhaled and remembered back home. Nothing like the warmth of the kitchen to take her there to water her roots.
She’d been here for years; dare she leave now? Her tears had flooded the house in which they lived, yet she stayed afloat due to the life-preservers known as her children. She’d had a mind to set the place on fire, but salt around the house did the trick. He had caused enough fires, so now he could burn in them. She was gone.