"Crazy like what? Get fucked?" she shrieked. "That's what you're there to do."
"You know what I mean, Emma," I muttered with my brows furrowed. "What will people think?—"
She cut me off to say, "Who gives a fuck about what people will think? You're grown as hell, and you don't owe anyone an explanation, Nyne."
"It's way more complicated than that." I tried to reason with her and make my explanation logical, but there was no point. We had this conversation months ago. Emma knew from experience, though her reason for going was different than mine. She loved it enough to brag about it and encourage me to go.
"How complicated, Nyne?"
"What if my period comes on?—"
"They'll make arrangements," she cut me off again.
"What if I get pregnant?"
"They'll wear condoms."
We went at it, back and forth.
"What if?—"
"Stop bullshitting, Nyne. Just do it. You deserve this. Even if you don't go for sex, go to relax and have a good time. You need a different scenery. It’s beautiful out there. You don't want to miss out on something like that." Her tone was low, almost as if she was speaking from a place of genuine concern rather than the rambunctious, country, chopped-and-screwed grammar that she wielded often in professional settings.
Having heard enough, there was no point in going back and forth with her because though this conversation was mentioned months ago, I could weigh out the pros and cons, but the pros outweighed the cons in a heartbeat. Truth was, I was looking forevery reason not to go when there were none. I had paid time off, and I didn't have any responsibilities. Yet here I was, living my life like an old hag with kittens.
"Do it, Nyne," she stated, invading my thoughts like a thief.
"I hear you," I muttered, just to get her to shut up. Talking to Emma felt like talking to a brick wall when you were saying shit she didn't want to hear.
"I expect a screenshot of the confirmation email in the morning," she stated in a slightly assertive tone.
I chortled. "Who are you, my mother?"
"For you to be a college professor, you know, you're not that bright," she teased me.
"Fuck you," I uttered with a low laugh and ended the call.
If I let her, she'd talk my ear off all night. As much as I wanted to have girl talk, I needed to wine down and relax. The impromptu snow had me feeling a little depressed. I didn't know if it was because I'd been snowed in for a few days, but it felt like those COVID-19 days when the world stopped for a moment. Snow in the south always hit different, and I didn't care for it at all.
Thankfully, it was starting to clear up because I was starting to run low on items I needed. People had rummaged through the grocery stores, and items were low-stocked, but I settled for whatever I could get that would last me long enough until things went back to normal.
Wandering into my bedroom, I took off my clothes, threw them in the laundry, and then started the shower. While the water heated up, I stood in front of the mirror, gazing at my toasted complexion. The tip of my nose was a shade of red because in the wintertime, I was always a shade lighter.
Trailing slowly, my eyes roamed over my body as if I didn't recognize myself. Since I'd turned thirty, you'd think I was aging backwards because that's how the compliments seemed. WhenI was younger, people swore I was older. Now that I was a little older, people swore I was younger. I guessed yoga had me looking youthful. I'd always had good eating habits, but having a washboard stomach would never know my name. I had enough stomach to pinch, and my stretch marks were visible. They swarmed down my body, a shade lighter than my complexion, trailing in no specific pattern. My breasts were small and perky, and though I wasn't blessed with a coke-bottle shape, it didn't take away from my curves and plump ass.
Gradually, my body became a trophy because it made men want to cuff me and show me off. Due to my disinterest in dating at that time, I declined anything that involved a situationship.
What the fuck are you waiting for then, Nyne?
I believe in monogamy, not what the men in this generation lusted after: pretty much anything that included late-night phone calls and catching feelings. I liked being courted and feeling like I mattered to someone. My time had already been wasted once, and I didn't want to play the fool and wear the clown suit once again. I'd never let a nigga play in my face the way Malcolm did. One hundred and fifty pounds was the smallest I'd ever been. I gained up to two hundred pounds while going through the divorce. All that time, I was stress-eating and sleeping so much that when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself.
Malcolm ripped me to pieces, and I had to muster the strength to see each day through and carry on as if I wasn't burning up inside. That was probably the darkest time in my life, one I struggled miserably to get over.
Taking a deep breath, I ripped my eyes away from my reflection in the foggy mirror and clasped my hand around the cold shower door handle, stepping inside one foot at a time. The second my feet touched the damp tile floor, a tingle of relaxation swarmed over me.
The water was so hot that it felt like needles were prickling on my skin, but it felt so good when I lathered my vanilla-scented body wash and Dial soap to wash the hard day's work off my body after washing my pussy. I'd been up since 6:30 a.m.
Washing the soap off my body, I exited the shower, grabbed my towel off the rack, and dried off. Then I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Though the shower gave me a little bit of relaxation, my muscles were still tight. As I sauntered to the bedroom, I rummaged through my dresser to slip into some pajamas. A brown lace negligee was what I opted for. My body was already layered and scented in vanilla body creams and vanilla mists, so all I had to do was cook dinner and call it a night.
