“She’s at her new Pilates class.”
There was a moment of silence before Lawr begged, “Please tell me she’s not—”
“She is,” I interrupted him to confirm. “The lover of her ex-husband’s soon-to-be-ex-wife is her new instructor. She says the class is magnificent. The instructor knows who she is. They go for chai teas after and the other one meets them. They’re all bonding over mutual hatred.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lawr muttered.
“It’s actually quite healthy.”
“It’s nutty, like that woman is,” Lawr returned. “And she’s been burned badly enough, she shouldn’t court more.”
“She’s healing, Lawrie,” I said softly. “Let her do it her way.”
There was another moment of silence before Lawr said, “Right.”
I scrunched another sandwich together and replied, “I should probably let you go.”
And I should let him go because he had to get going.
I had an evening of nothing ahead of me.
“Yeah. I’ll let you know about Thanksgiving.”
“That’d be great, Lawrie. Hope the rest of your day goes well.”
“Yours too, sweetheart. And MeeMee?”
“Yes?”
“Slow is not bad,” he said gently.
He was right. Slow probably wasn’t bad.
Crawling to a virtual stand-still wasn’t all that hot, however.
I didn’t share that.
I said, “Thanks, Lawrie.”
“Talk to you soon.”
“Back at you.”
“’Bye, MeeMee.”
“’Bye, Lawrie.”
I hit the button to disconnect and kept at my cookies, thinking it was getting late and I’d not planned anything for dinner hoping that there might be some possibility I’d be eating whatever I’d be eating with Mickey.
After the cookie sandwiches got finished, packed up for transport the next day and I did the cleanup, I realized that was not happening and then got annoyed because I hadn’t taken anything out to defrost, and I had nothing in the fridge to make.
I opened the door, stared in the fridge and saw my only choice was an omelet, which didn’t sound appetizing.
But at least it was something.
Therefore I made my plans. Omelet. Wine. Book. Bath. Bed.
And no Mickey.
Before I started all that skin tingling excitement, I sent my kids their texts of the day and gave myself my only thrill of the day because I then got their replies.
I had the cheese grated, the garlic minced, the mushrooms sliced and was beating the eggs when my phone on my counter rang.
The display said “Mickey.”
I glared at it and the time above it, which told me it was ten to six.
I wanted to let it ring, go to voicemail, force him to make more of an effort to get in touch with me, but that was petty.
And I was no longer petty.
So I hit the button to accept then hit the button for speaker.
“Hey,” I greeted.
“On my way home from work.”
What?
No.
Whatever.
“Fascinating news,” I replied.
He said nothing for a few seconds before he stated, “Forgot if you had bacon on your burger.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”
He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?
No, he was not.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”
“What?” he asked.
“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”
“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.
“I’m hungry,” I replied.
“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”
The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.
“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.
There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”
“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed frequently,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”
“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.
“You can get your burger. The omelet’s just for me. And you can’t come over. I have plans this evening.”
He didn’t sound amused when he asked, “You got plans?”
“I do,” I confirmed.
“What plans?” he pushed.
“I’m washing my hair,” I snapped. “Now, the butter in the skillet has melted. I have to go. I’m sure I’ll talk to you later…someday.”
“Am—”
I hit the button to disconnect, turned off the ringer and turned my phone over so I couldn’t see the display. When it vibrated, making noise against my counter, I shoved it in a drawer and picked up the remote to turn on my system across the room, bringing up Pandora and listening to my Billie Holiday station.
The day was gray and drizzling. I was eating alone. Mickey was probably still dating a redhead who was not me. And he thought he could come over whenever he could squeeze me into his life.
It was time for the blues.
I was about to slice the side of my fork through the finished omelet, and not looking forward to it, when the banging came at my door.
My head whipped that way.
Through the glass, I saw Mickey.
On no, he was not banging on my door like he was angry when he said we needed to make plans and I agreed and asked when, then he did not bother to reply to me.
I wasn’t sitting around, anxiously awaiting his attention!
And I was not going to be the type of woman who accepted the scraps of attention from a man.
He had a busy life? He had things going on? We had to plan and be patient and time our moments together?
I could do that.
If we spoke about it, like two adults, and we both knew where we stood.
Not Mickey expecting I’d be hanging around waiting for him to decide to bring some burgers to me.