Lashawnda's mind. Melvin Green was just the distraction she needed.
“Ladies, listen up! If you want to join Louisa Montero in tropical paradise, you've gotta get those letters in. But right now, we're looking for caller number twenty to win an all-expenses-paid trip to the New Orleans Bayou Classic for Thanksgiving weekend. Caller twenty, we're waiting.”
“Sittin' Up in My Room,” a song sung by Brandy on the
Waiting to Exhale
sound track, followed.
Lashawnda heard about the Night Before Thirty contest every day now, but she was sure she had no chance of winning. What would she say in her letter, anyway? But after talking with Cicely and clarifying that she was not going to budge, she thought,
What do I have to lose?
She closed her eyes and listened to Brandy's voice, letting it relax her as she began to formulate exactly what she would say in the letter. Lashawnda felt a smile inside. Her best revenge for Cicely's blatant insensitivity was to plan a trip on her own.
As a matter of fact,
she thought,
even if I don't win the trip, I'll dip into my savings account and go somewhere by myself.
She looked over at Cicely, who appeared to be involved in fighting traffic. Was every relationship that Lashawnda had going to be an equal mixture of love and hate? What made her and Cicely so much tougher than any of her other relationships was their secrecy and her uncertainty about what it meant. Lashawnda didn't know if she was a straight woman involved with a lesbian or a lesbian who would not venture back into the world of heterosexuality. She still fantasized about men, but when a woman walked by with nice breasts, she often found herself intrigued with the idea of touching them. Touching her. Wondering, if she approached her, whether she could make her laugh.
But thoughts about all this had to be pushed aside. They were turning into the parking garage and had to go to work. Cicely pulled into their assigned space. Lashawnda adjusted her seat back to its upright position.
“Lashawnda, listen, I know your birthday is important to you. It's important to me too. I'm going to make it up to you—by celebrating it early, I mean. Better yet, I'm going to show you a good time the weekends before
and
after. We can do a monthlong celebration if you want.”
Lashawnda opened her door.
“Wait a minute,” Cicely insisted.
She closed the door.
“Are we okay, me and you?”
Lashawnda responded with an empty, dry “Yeah.”
“Can I get a kiss before we go inside?”
Lashawnda eyed Cicely, who didn't back down from her request.
“Just a little one,” she pushed.
Lashawnda leaned toward Cicely, who stuck her tongue inside hermouth and forced an intense kiss on her, showing total disregard for their conversation during the drive over.
She slowly pulled back and stared at Cicely, wondering,
Who is this woman I'm living with?
Then a thought that had never before crossed her mind hit her:
She sees me as her toy.
She hoped her perception was wrong, but Cicely's credibility was beginning to appear shadier than that of a man going through his midlife crisis, looking to find a pretty young playmate to keep around for the sole purpose of stroking his ego and making him feel good about his miserable existence. Was Cicely the same?
Cicely opened her door. “Let's get inside. We have a busy day ahead.
“By the way, remember the flight attendant, Marissa?” Cicely said as they walked through the parking garage. “Well, she's coming in for a two-hour session. She's having a rough time. The girl is a mess. Just make sure we aren't disturbed through the duration of the session.”
“No problem.”
Cicely was the boss, her employer. Duty called and Lashawnda had to push everything aside and go to work. But in between her secretarial duties, she had a letter to write—and a contest to win.
OU'LL BE SLEEPING in here tonight,” Catara's favorite cousin, Cheryl, said in her high-pitched, girlish voice. She had just picked Catara
“Ladies, listen up! If you want to join Louisa Montero in tropical paradise, you've gotta get those letters in. But right now, we're looking for caller number twenty to win an all-expenses-paid trip to the New Orleans Bayou Classic for Thanksgiving weekend. Caller twenty, we're waiting.”
“Sittin' Up in My Room,” a song sung by Brandy on the
Waiting to Exhale
sound track, followed.
Lashawnda heard about the Night Before Thirty contest every day now, but she was sure she had no chance of winning. What would she say in her letter, anyway? But after talking with Cicely and clarifying that she was not going to budge, she thought,
What do I have to lose?
She closed her eyes and listened to Brandy's voice, letting it relax her as she began to formulate exactly what she would say in the letter. Lashawnda felt a smile inside. Her best revenge for Cicely's blatant insensitivity was to plan a trip on her own.
As a matter of fact,
she thought,
even if I don't win the trip, I'll dip into my savings account and go somewhere by myself.
She looked over at Cicely, who appeared to be involved in fighting traffic. Was every relationship that Lashawnda had going to be an equal mixture of love and hate? What made her and Cicely so much tougher than any of her other relationships was their secrecy and her uncertainty about what it meant. Lashawnda didn't know if she was a straight woman involved with a lesbian or a lesbian who would not venture back into the world of heterosexuality. She still fantasized about men, but when a woman walked by with nice breasts, she often found herself intrigued with the idea of touching them. Touching her. Wondering, if she approached her, whether she could make her laugh.
But thoughts about all this had to be pushed aside. They were turning into the parking garage and had to go to work. Cicely pulled into their assigned space. Lashawnda adjusted her seat back to its upright position.
“Lashawnda, listen, I know your birthday is important to you. It's important to me too. I'm going to make it up to you—by celebrating it early, I mean. Better yet, I'm going to show you a good time the weekends before
and
after. We can do a monthlong celebration if you want.”
Lashawnda opened her door.
“Wait a minute,” Cicely insisted.
She closed the door.
“Are we okay, me and you?”
Lashawnda responded with an empty, dry “Yeah.”
“Can I get a kiss before we go inside?”
Lashawnda eyed Cicely, who didn't back down from her request.
“Just a little one,” she pushed.
Lashawnda leaned toward Cicely, who stuck her tongue inside hermouth and forced an intense kiss on her, showing total disregard for their conversation during the drive over.
She slowly pulled back and stared at Cicely, wondering,
Who is this woman I'm living with?
Then a thought that had never before crossed her mind hit her:
She sees me as her toy.
She hoped her perception was wrong, but Cicely's credibility was beginning to appear shadier than that of a man going through his midlife crisis, looking to find a pretty young playmate to keep around for the sole purpose of stroking his ego and making him feel good about his miserable existence. Was Cicely the same?
Cicely opened her door. “Let's get inside. We have a busy day ahead.
“By the way, remember the flight attendant, Marissa?” Cicely said as they walked through the parking garage. “Well, she's coming in for a two-hour session. She's having a rough time. The girl is a mess. Just make sure we aren't disturbed through the duration of the session.”
“No problem.”
Cicely was the boss, her employer. Duty called and Lashawnda had to push everything aside and go to work. But in between her secretarial duties, she had a letter to write—and a contest to win.
OU'LL BE SLEEPING in here tonight,” Catara's favorite cousin, Cheryl, said in her high-pitched, girlish voice. She had just picked Catara
Similar Books
