Joker, don’t act like you don’t know what you’re working with.
What time are you having me over for lunch/brunch?
I’ll be over around 1:30 unless you have any objections.
Sure I had objections. Your Honor, I have objections. Hell, I had a variety of objections. But I was unable to express any of them. For reasons unbeknownst to me I didn’t curtail what I knew in my gut to be disastrous. I was flirting with the devil and it excited me, ignited me, and invigorated me. Hell, it turned me on. That, and the little (mad bad, wrong choice of words) stunt he pulled with the picture. Why couldn’t I be honest enough to stop him from coming over? Why wasn’t my rational mind resisting what it knew to be danger (danger Will Robinson)?
14382 Cypress View Lane
Hit me up if there is something you need me to pick up.
I put down my phone and ran around my apartment like a mad woman. My apartment looked like the aftermath of a tsunami disaster area. A ridiculously busy week at work had left me with little time to tidy up my place. I couldn’t let Davis see my spot looking like this. I had three hours to cook, clean, and appear presentable. Hold up! Why am I worried about impressing a man that I’ve known for years? Why am I getting bent out of shape when I know him—well, know/knew of him? At any rate, I spent the next two hours cleaning the kitchen, bathroom, dusting furniture, mopping, and picking up a week’s worth of clothes from nearly every square inch of my apartment. With only an hour to go I rushed to the store for fresh fruit, a couple bottles of wine (my stash was low), a bottle of champagne, and orange juice. I needed something to calm my nerves and a date with one of my battery-operated toys wasn’t going to fit into my already tight schedule. Nevertheless, I somehow managed to get things together just before Davis arrived—late (thank goodness).
A strong rap on the door pulled me from the nearby kitchen. I stood on my tippy-toes to catch a glimpse of him through the peephole. If he was looking raggedy I could pretend not to be home and hopefully dodge a bullet. Fat chance. Did he look that good in high school?
“Hello sir,” I said as I pulled the door toward me. No, he definitely didn’t look that good in high school. He stepped into the small foyer and enveloped me in a hug—no, an embrace. The warmth of his body ignited a small fire down below. He stepped back and sized me up and down.
“The years have been kind to you. You look good.”
“Thank you. You seem to be aging like a fine wine,” I said with the back end of my statement drawing a smile on my face. With that, he turned around taking in the atmosphere. Was his butt that tight back in the day? “Please have a seat on the sofa. Help yourself to the fruit. Would you like a mimosa?”
“Yes, please. Let me guess–your goal is to get me tipsy so that you can take advantage of me. Right?” He asked with a laugh.
“You got jokes. I’m not sure how to take advantage of the willing,” I counted as I walked back into the kitchen.
“Let’s get this straight right now,” he began.
I looked at him sitting there. As he opened his mouth to deposit a strawberry I noticed that the goatee on his dark-chocolate face was newly trimmed. Time had been on his side. He had assuredly aged, but it was a mature look that fit him well. And the muscles I detected (from our recent embrace) under his shirt were certainly saying my name as he then lifted his wine glass from the coffee table. Yep, he’s going to get it.