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“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” my voice is softer, “I wish she’d say that, instead of posting subliminals on Facebook. We’re grown. We don’t do that.”

“On what though? I feel you, sis. I’m staying out of it because that’s what I do. I’m here to talk though. She does make a good ass doughnut. I’ll say that.”

I burst into a much-needed cackle session. “You’re stupid.”

“So, how’s Mr. Freak Man?”

“My husband, bitch.”

“Mr. Freak Man Damien. Your husband. Sorry. Gosh.”

“I can’t stand you. He’s fine, sis. Should be at work right now. I’m thinking about bringing him some lunch before going back home. Tasty's Deli is over there and that sounds so good for lunch right now.”

“Ooh, they do,” she agrees, her greedy face all over the damn screen, “Bring me some too, sis.”

I point at the screen like she’s being scolded, “Um, no, you’re good. Keep eating that big ass Dime doughnut, shorty. And tell Pillsbury Doughgirl to learn how to communicate properly. See you Thursday. Bye now!”

She playfully scoffs, “Ugh. Bye bitchhh.”

I’m in shambles, laughing while hanging up the phone. She really does get on my nerves. Tye’s my girl though. Always here to set me straight when I’m overthinking or tripping. She made a few solid points. Sometimes, I can be hard on Dime, admittedly. Speaking of motherhood.

Dime’s the epitome of a hard-working mother. Doing whatever she can do for my niece, no matter how dirty her hands have to get. It’s her background noise that causes static. Her taste in men is horrible. Muy teriblè. That’s the source of our disconnection right there. If she could get that together, I’d gladly do business with her. I can’t risk losing what I’ve gained dealing with her shit. Guess we should talk about that. Like women.

Putting pride to the side, I send her a message.

Me: Hey…can I pull up on you? We need to talk.

She’s typically a late texter. Understandable. She has a whole six year old girl to raise. I’m sure she’ll get back to me. With the pressure off, I slide the phone into my bag, focusing back on shopping. As if I need anything else.

My grocery cart is full enough as is. It looks less like a normal grocery excursion and more like I’m preparing for Thanksgiving several months in advance. Protein waffles. Check. Fruit. Check. Oat milk. Check. Two boxes of Damien’s Espresso brand for when I need the rush. Check.

Socks. Draws. DVD’s. Life insurance. Strippers. Name it, I’ve probably got it. Except wine. I still don’t have wine. Mama needs her pink Moscato.

Before I can accommodate my inner alcoholic, I’m in the cereal aisle trying to find Dame’s Raisin Bran Crunch. It’s honestly questionable how he even eats the stuff. Raisins in cereal? Disgusting. And he has the nerve to talk about Almond Joy’s. Lucky for him, or unlucky if you ask me, there’s one box of it on the second shelf. Lined up next to two boxes of a real cereal, Waffle Crisp. I grab his sawdust in a box before pushing my minivan-heavy cart down the aisle.

My destination is cut short by two young girls chasing each other at the end of the aisle. Both of them are toddlers. Each wearing distinctive smiles through their mischief. They’re exactly how I envision my daughter. Black and beautiful. Both of them have their hair braided. Except one is wearing a pink bow to match her Aaliyah shirt of the same color. So fuckin’ cute. My eyes water watching them play. I’m completely unbothered by their presence, despite them blocking me in. Baby fever has really been kicking my ass lately. So much so, my mind briefly wanders into a false reality where the girls are mine. That fantasy’s quickly cut short once a screeching voice echoes through the aisle.

“Dream and Destiny. Please get y’all little butts over here, right this second. Before I lose my patience in this store.”

The voice of a mother. A very tired one. I turn my head to look her way. She’s a young, pretty woman, the same complexion as me, standing with the look of Hell on her face. Her bottom lip is inside her mouth, eyes slanted down. She’s not playing around. Neither was God when he made her. Peanut butter wishes it could’ve been made as thick as her. Whoever did her hair, laid her edges with God’s borrowed fingers. The man who helped produce those two angels should buy a lottery ticket. His luck is endless.

The twin girls meekly run past me. Each saying sorry in their shy little voices as they do. Their mother does the same. Apologizing in my direction while holding a box of Fruity Pebbles.

“It’s okay,” I say, waving them off, “They weren’t a problem at all.”

Her face enshrines relief, actually looking quite familiar the longer she stands in front of me. Maybe she’s been by the lounge. Or maybe I served her back in my Midnight Inn bartender days. Her face stands out to me. And I’m really good with faces, even if the names leave me.

“You have kids?” The woman asks next, throwing the cereal in her cart of junk food, literature, tofu, fruit, and protein shakes. Each item indicates her personality. A busy woman. Likely has little to no time to do anything for herself other than read and work out. Motherhood is her main routine.

“Nah, not yet,” my voice strains as I fight to retain a smile. Touchy question.

“Well, don’t rush,” she chirps with a comforting smile, “Trust me. I love those two with all my heart, but they take me through there, okay?”

We both explode into laughter until I push forward. Never even getting each other’s names. The smile dissipates immediately after I’m out of her sight. She’s right, I guess. No rush. While I’d love a child of my own, sometimes I feel like I’m not ready. Or maybe it’s guilt of feeling ready, even though Damien clearly isn’t. We both know he’d be a great father. He’s intelligent. Business savvy. An amazing provider. He could probably rip the head off a small bear with those big ass arms of his. We’re both well aware of what lengths he’d take to protect those he loves.

With a body on his gun to prove it.

Right now, we’re in this weird state. We’re happy together. Absolutely. I’m not going anywhere. I wouldn’t have married him if there was any doubt in my mind about our future. It’s easy to admit being deeply in love with him. There’s just a part of me that still wants more. Just like him.