I chew on my lip before I switch to my nail on my left index finger as my mind swirls with thoughts. Since I know that Aunt Emmy will follow up if she doesn’t hear from or see me in a few hours, I go to the message with Rosetta. With my mind everywhere, rejection in my belly, and weariness in my spirit, I send a text before I can second-guess myself.
Me:
What day were you wanting to hook up?
My hands tremble slightly once the message is sent, and I exit the thread. My chest tightens when my eyes land on another unread message from Zakai. Being in his arms the other day was the comfort I had been missing, but I was too caught up in my dilemma to accept it. I can only pray that he doesn’t get tired of my efforts to push him away and heed my urging. Before Zakai, no other man has been around long enough to deal with my present state. In fact, I have done a great job of not falling in love or giving in to the idea of it. So, it’s a little out of the norm fora man to show me that he isn’t interested in being temporary in my life. My body freezes when a chime sounds from my phone.
R. Winston:
Today. I have things to do tomorrow and Sunday, so I need to get this out of the way. Meet me in thirty minutes at that pasta place over on Cruiser Drive.
In typical Rosetta fashion, the original two weeks she wanted me to spend time with her were condensed into this last-minute dinner. I no longer feel any type of way about it when she does it. But the inconvenience of being her inconvenient placeholder often exhausts me.
“See, Auntie, this is why I don’t do this. This woman is so demanding and inconsiderate. How can she not consider what I might be going through? Ugh,” I say as I stare at the selfish words on my phone.
Even through text, I can sense the hostile and nasty way Rosetta speaks, despite our exchange being in written form. It always amazes me how a woman can be a trash ass individual but have the most audacity. Then, to make demands as if she has the right to do so. Rosetta makes my ass itch, and I often want to forget that Aunt Emmy raised me to be respectful. With my marching orders given, I stand and gather my belongings so I can leave the house. I have no time to change out of the business attire I wore to work, so I slip back into my heels and leave my bedroom. My shoulders sag, my back is tight, and my stomach feels vacant, but I walk out of my front door a couple of seconds later.
God, please let this go smoother than our texts or phone calls. I’m tired, and it would be against your will if I slap this woman tonight.
Now, how are you praying for mercy while also issuing a subtle threat? God won’t honor that mess, Caziya.
My conscience chastises me before my thoughts can settle into my psyche. But the truth is, Rosetta drains the sensible out of me on most days. Now that I have to see her in a public and in-person situation, I have no clue how this will go. God knows my heart and prayerfully will forgive me as I navigate this experience. Luckily or unluckily for me, Olive Garden, or the pasta place as Rosetta calls it, isn’t far from me, and I arrive earlier than requested. However, I need something to get me through, so I go in, put my name down, and then head to the bar for a quick drink. While Aunt Emmy likes to pray away all my troubles, I often agree with her methods. But I need another agent to help me find the right path from the beginning.
“Hello. What can I get for you?” the bartender asks the second I walk up to the bar. I plaster on a smile as I make a request of my own.
“Can you recommend something? I want something that’ll get me to a feel-good place in a short time.”
“Sure can. How about I make you a Long Island limoncello? It’s similar to a Long Island, but our version of it.”
I nod my agreement, and the bartender smiles before going about creating the drink selection as I stare blankly at the TV screen just above the bar. While I dread seeing Rosetta after so many years, there’s a part of me curious about how she looks. I also wonder about how she’ll handle me in person. While she has never accepted me as her daughter, I can’t help but wonder if that will change when she sees me. It’s different when my only communication with someone is phone calls or texts. Will Rosetta treat me like a friend in person, or will she exhibit some maternal qualities?
Between the drink and my mind that’s been on a loop since I made the decision to give in to this meeting, time catches mequickly. My phone chimes with a new message as soon as I finish my drink. It has effectively given me a slight buzz, and I believe I can now handle whatever comes my way during dinner.
R. Winston:
Where are you? I thought I told you to get here in thirty minutes.
Well, so much for this going without incident or a shift in my resolve about the type of woman Rosetta will be while we break bread. I swallow the remaining contents of my drink, grab my purse, and leave the bar as I head toward the front entrance. Unfortunately for me, I have no idea what Rosetta looks like, so I have no way of knowing who I will be searching for. I walk up to the hostess desk, ready to ask if someone named Winston has also requested a table for two.
“Lord, I should have known Emmy would have rubbed off on you. Is this how you come to meet me for dinner, Arleta?” That voice halts my steps, and I nearly trip over my feet when I turn to see an older version of myself standing directly behind me.
Damn, her hateful ass has got the nerve to be pretty. Why couldn’t she look like a frog tap-danced on her face, leaving permanent warts in its wake?
“Are you just gonna stand there blinking like a fool? Hug me, child,” Rosetta snarls.
So much for my liquor courage. This bitch.
I swallow over the lump in my throat and remove the space between Rosetta and me to embrace her. The pitty-pat taps on my back cause a chill to enter my bloodstream from the coldness of the hug Rosetta gives me. I choke back the sob that I would ordinarily release at the reminder of Rosetta’s inability to show love toward me. Before I can do so, Rosetta steps back, and her gaze shifts to an older black man.
“Mi amour, this is Arleta. She and I are related. Arleta, this is the man who is my life and the one my heart beats for. Go on and greet him like Emmy taught you some manners.”
I take a step back like Rosetta slapped the taste out of my mouth, and all I can do is wave at whoever this man is. The description Rosetta gives about who he is to her, in comparison to mine, staggers and wounds me.
“Rosetta, my pet, you didn’t give her my name,” the man tells Rosetta, and I fight my gag reflex when her eyes flash with stars.”
“I did. You’re my mi amour,” Rosetta gushes.
I’m gonna be sick.
