Bab 2: Chapter 2
After I got off the phone, I realized I should have better explained my motivation for seeking another man. I always fantasized about integrating my dating pool. In high school there were always a few classmates in my advanced placement classes of different racial backgrounds who caught my eye. There were also the frat boys in my political science classes in college seeking to diversify their co-ed scorecard, but I never gave myself permission to date outside my race. As the big day of October 7 loomed closer, I decided to freak now before I forever vowed my piece.
* * * *
“Wake up, Triangle, this is Karen and Kareem telling you to get up out of bed and get ready to start your weekend.”
I reluctantly rolled over and turned off my clock radio. Another day in the salt mines. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job, but sometimes I wish I could loll around in bed all day, looking at soap operas and eating popcorn. After getting dressed in a pair of jeans and a nice silk blouse, I spent my usual ten minutes putting in my contact lenses. I recently decided to part with my glasses for a more natural look, but the knack of putting those pieces of plastic in my eyes sometimes escaped me. I started wearing specs in second grade and my collection of frames varied according to my moods. Since I did not want my wedding pictures to capture the glare of my glasses, I decided to transition into a more natural look.
After winning the war to see better, I went outside to crank up the hand-me-down Volvo my mother gave me as a graduation present, otherwise known as Bette Blue. As I drove down New Bern Avenue, I applied my lipstick and turned up the radio. They were playing the ‘Mama I Can’t Breathe’ mix of house music and I was giving it all I got. As I passed my favorite Cajun chicken spot, I considered swooping in to get breakfast since I skipped my usual bagel at home, but I decided not to yield to temptation even though the thought of those greasy potato chunks and that southern liquid crack was making my stomach protest.
Pulling into the office parking lot, I reflected on my time at the magazine. I started there just out of college. Me, a 22-year-old whose biggest choice three months prior was whether to have pizza or Chinese for dinner, had a say in which stories ran in a monthly magazine.
“Hi Yvette, ready for another day behind the computer?” Sandi Artenberry asked as she stepped out her silver Honda Accord parked beside me. True to form, my favorite fellow reporter was dressed in her signature pink, from her ballet flats to her artfully applied eye makeup. In spite of our background differences—she was a Southern belle whose family tree included those who fought in the War of Northern Aggression while mine include those who followed the North Star to freedom—I considered her my closest professional friend. We started at NC Magazineon the same day and shared a love of reporting, vampire novels and the healing properties of pasta.
“Ready as I’m ever going to be. What are you doing this weekend?”
“Andrew and I are going to visit his folks in Knoxville,” she said as we walked into the welcoming embrace of our office’s air conditioning.
“I guess I should get used to the idea of visiting the in-laws myself. The wedding isn’t that far away.”
“Have you gotten your dress yet?”
“No, I figured I will do it next month when I go home and visit my mom for the Fourth of July,” I said.
“Well, have fun. I remember how it was trying to get a wedding dress. It seemed like at every fitting I either gained ten pounds or lost ten pounds. I was afraid on the big day my dress would either fall off or I would burst through.”
“Well, I have seen the pictures and you seemed to have filled your dress nicely.” Sandi smiled at the framed picture of her big day she kept on her desk along with the pictures of her twin angels, Ashton and Ashley.
“So what are you doing this weekend?” Sandi asked.
“I’m going to see Martin. He leaves on Sunday for his two weeks’ Air Force reserve drills, so I figured I would go up and give him a good going away present, if you know what I mean,” I said, giving her a wink.
“Yvette, you are too much,” Sandi said with a slight laugh as her Tennessee twang got the best of her.
“Sugar, is there any other way to be?” I replied, laying on my best Dolly Parton sassiness.
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