qreative writing

I know it’s late but here’s the continuation to the qreative writing series (1 & 2) that you guys enjoyed so much:

Calm down, girl. Get on the game face. I wasn’t going to let this mess with me. Stay focused. We’ll handle this business card situation later. I searched my racks for something to throw on. It didn’t take long. He may have gotten half my closet but he wasn’t going to take away my categorically organized system: Bitchy-Boss Boardroom, Casual-yet-Chic Hostess, Dinner with the Divas, Evening Elegance, Fitness Fab, all the way down the alphabet. I sighed, getting lost for a moment as I took in the luxurious display of designer pieces, but was snapped back to reality by the voice I dreaded hearing the most over the phone (it was much worse in person): my future mother-in-law.

I hurriedly pulled on an outfit from the Casual-yet-Chic Hostess portion of my closet and allowed the soft feel of my Dolce & Gabbana silk button-up to calm the residual anger that had spread through my body moments earlier.

I tucked “Tracey” in my breast pocket. Yeah, this outta level the playing field. I checked myself in the mirror once more and readied my face for my guest. You can do this. She’s just a woman. She’s just a woman. You’re a woman. You are both women.

“Hello,” I sang as I extended my hand to Mrs. Trentwood. “Donna. Pleasure to meet you,” I continued, with my hand still in mid-air as a still-seated Mrs. Trentwood did nothing but stare at it, then at me, then at it.

“I’m sure,” she replied coldly and turned back to the table and her son. “Darren has told me so much about you.”

Shake it off, girl. You deal with these types all the time.

“So,” I said as I joined them at the table. “How was your flight in? And the first night at your hotel? Was everything satisfactory?”

“Darling, what took you so long to come out? Were you on the phone with Terrence?,” Mrs. Trentwood asked forking a few berries into her mouth.

My façade crumbled. I stared hard and blank at Darren who had choked on the orange juice he was sipping and started chuckling at his mother’s comment.

“Excuse me?” I managed.

“Terrence, dear, Ter-rence. Did you take so long because you were talking to him? Or do you only do that in your sleep?”

Oh, this is some bullshit. This fool told his mother. He got some gotdam nerve. I can’t stand momma’s boys. Did I know he was one when I agreed to marry him?? The business card burned in my pocket. Nope, not yet girl. Not time to play that card.

“Actually, Mrs. Trentwood, I was getting dressed. And I haven’t spoken to…. Terrence… in years.”

“Ah. Only in your sleep, then. I see. Were you rushing to dress?”

And before I could answer: “Did you forget I was coming or had you spent all morning preparing this lovely spread for me?” She motioned at the gourmet-style breakfast Darren had woke up early to make. Darren eyed me with one brow up.

He had better let this live. “Oh, the latter, of course.” I shot Darren a look to make sure he knew to go along.

“I see. A sleeptalker and a liar. How very interesting.” Mrs. Trentwood turned to me folding her hands in her lap and cocked her head to the side.

The heat began to rise. Who is she to sit here judging me? Oh yeah: the mother of my fiancé. But so what? Maybe I’ll just call the whole thing off and tell them both where they can stick their judgments and homemade breakfast. I was silently working myself up. Sittin’ here in my gotdam apartment. It hasn’t made an appearance in a while but they’re about to make the Flatbush come out. Matta fact maybe I need to visit my walk-in and grab something from the Beat-a-Hoe Down section.

“With all due respect ma’am,” I started. I was about to go in. About to put my English and Law degrees to use. Verbalize some things to paint a very clear picture.

“SO,” Darren cut me off. “What do you want to do today, ma?”

I could feel the fury in my face.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to go to the top of the Empire State Building,” Mrs. Trentwood replied in a honey-soaked voice as she turned to address her pride and joy.

“Will you be coming with us, Donna? Or should you call Terrence to make sure your schedule is free?”

That’s it. This shit has gone too far. I don’t care whose mama she is or how old she is.

“Ma,” Darren said. “C’mon now…”

But I didn’t hear him. I didn’t let him finish. She was about to see exactly how perfect her little angel was. Who the bad guy really was. She was not gonna make me the demon. I pulled the folded business card out and flung it at her.

“ACTUALLY, I think I’ll call TRA-CEY. To check HIS schedule,” I yelled and gestured at Darren. “Yeah, that’s right,” I went on as a stunned Mrs. Trentwood picked up the card and looked at it. “Your little angel ain’t so perfect! I’m not the one you need to be gettin’ on!”

I was acting like an ass. I felt it. I knew it. They both looked at me in shock but I didn’t care. Darren just stared with his mouth open. He was caught. And I was done with my tantrum. My chest heaved up and down. I had worked myself up to a sweat. Neither Dolce nor Gabbana would appreciate what I was doing to their silk. The quiet in the room made me feel foolish even before he opened his mouth to speak.

“Actually…” Darren said slowly hanging and shaking his head. He let out a chuckle.

What the hell is so funny.

“Actually,” he tried again. “You don’t have to call her. She’s scheduled for next week.”

Oh this mothereffer done lost his damn mind. If he thinks I won’t start tossing all this here decorative shit in my apartment at his head, in FRONT of his mama, he’s got another thing coming.

“Come again,” I said calmy yet through my teeth and in place of the other words I had stored in my arsenal just for this very moment.

He stared at me. “I said. She’s. scheduled. for. next. week.” He took his time enunciating each syllable.

He waited. We stared. My brow was tense, my lips were about to form a snarl and I was about to launch. Mrs. Trentwood sat looking at both of us, unwilling to interject. I got the feeling she was enjoying this more than her daytime soaps.

“I’m sure you didn’t bother to look at the business name on the other side of that card. But she works for Cartier.” I got the feeling he was going to enjoy this too. Me? Not so much. “She offered me a free upgrade for your engagement ring because I hooked her up with my man. You know? Ryan? The exec at the Fortune 500 company I told you about. But then again you probably didn’t bother listening to that either.”

This time Mrs. Trentwood choked on her juice with a chuckle.

And I choked on my shame.

**I decided to qontinue on from part 1. If you haven’t read it start here before reading below. enjoy.**

I opened my eyes just wide enough to find where Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” was blaring from. One of my desperate smacks finally landed and silenced the alarm clock. I immediately hated myself for not throwing that damn clock away the first 20 times I’d thought about it. And why had I set it for 7:30am?? On a damn Sunday. I laid back down on “my side” of MY bed and suddenly felt confrontational. I didn’t care that my next move might not have been the best decision given the final words exchanged the night before but I was decidedly about to piss him off. He’d hit below the belt with the whole “Maybe Terrence would understand” line. It was definitely a half accusation/half checkmate-now-shut-up-and-go-back-to-sleep move. But, how the hell did he know about Terrence?? Had I, actually, been talking in my sleep the way he did every single night? Ugh. My frustration was motivation enough to set me into action. It was time to stake claim on MY bed and escape the prison of this “side” business.

I stretched my right leg out and pulled it high and wide, confident that my knee would land somewhere on him that would be far past uncomfortable. I brought it down with a flop and it landed with a soft thud… on empty mattress. Hunh? I looked up, for the first time fully opening my eyes and taking in my bedroom under the dim light that crept through my panels. I was alone in MY bed. I must’ve still been dreaming; this was too good to be true. My bed looked vast and welcoming and the invitation to sprawl across it proved too tempting. But after about five minutes of swimming across my fitted sheets and enjoying the cool fabric against my skin, I sat up slowly and began to ponder exactly why I was the only one in MY bed.

Moving the hair that had fallen from my curlers out of my face, I took a deep breath and swept the floor with my feet for my slippers. I had only found the left one before I was distracted by a smell that nights of take-out and days of grabbing a bagel and coffee had made foreign. Do I smell…Is that? Turkey bacon? And…and… I sniffed some more. Eggs?? Now I know I’m dreaming. I forgot the other slipper altogether and began a dazed journey out the bedroom and down the hall toward my kitchen. I was too taken by the aroma to notice how tidy my apartment looked in comparison to the night before.

I entered the dining area and stood in shock. Across the table was a mouthwatering spread. Waffles decorated with berries and dollops of whipped cream, sizzling turkey bacon, homemade hashbrowns, omelettes, toast with just enough butter… What have I done to deserve this? After the Men’s Health smackdown I’d attempted to give him last night? This? What the F is going on??

I stood for a moment, confused. Whatever. At this point I didn’t care. My stomach was cursing me out after that skimpy dinner of leftover lomein I’d eaten the night before and I was about to apologize as best I could.

Settling into my seat, I reached for a slice of toast and was met with a firm smack on the hand.

“Ow! Have you..??”

“Lost my mind?,” he finished for me, coolly. “No.” I hadn’t heard him come in the room, but there he was, fresh out the kitchen, fully dressed for the day, holding a pitcher of fresh-squeezed OJ.

“Then what the hell was that for??” I yelled trying to hide how impressed I was. His flyness in no way changed my feelings, my hand and my stomach being hurt.

“This isn’t for you,” he answered, untying his apron.

“Scuse me?”

“It’s for your future mother-in-law. You know? My mom? The woman who gave birth to me after 36 hours of hard labor? Who cleaned my cuts and came to every single game I had without fail? The one…”

“I GET IT.” I cut him short. I had gotten it the first ten times he’d given me that speech. I got that I would never be her. And I got that he was still pissy over me not making his Final Playoff game. I said sorry. Dang. Drop it already!

“Seeing how you forgot about or decided not to acknowledge her visit today,…” he went on.

Shit, I thought. Completely forgot about that. But decided not to let him know that.

“I didn’t forget nor did I purposely not acknowle…,” I tried to interject.

“…I figured I’d cover down where you dropped the ball,” he continued as if I’d said nothing. “And make you look good.”

“I was going to cook when I woke up,” I shot back, still a little thrown. “I would’ve last night, I just…”

“Had other things on your mind.” He glared. “Yeah. I know.”

Ugh. So he hadn’t forgotten the whole Terrence thing and instead chosen to pamper me with breakfast because he loved me so very much. Guess that was kind of a reach.

My attempt at a rebutle was interrupted by my apartment’s buzzer.

“You should probably go make yourself look like you give a shit about her coming to visit…or about how you look… or life.. in general,” he muttered over his shoulder as he walked back into the kitchen.

Shit. I hopped/ran down the hall to my bedroom in one slipper just as the buzzer rang out again. I heard him answer it as I flung my closet doors open. I hated the fact that I had surrendered half my walk-in to him. Some things a woman should never be asked to do. I tossed aside a few dress shirts he’d sloppily strewn across my armoire and heard something land lightly on the carpet.

I looked down and picked up the folded business card and peeked out the closet before examining it further.

I read the front before turning it over to read the scribble on the back. I felt the anger rising from my toes.

Who the F&$% is Tracey?

**Just started writing when I sat in front of my computer and this fictional chapter? story? collection of words was the result. Enjoy.**

I stared at my hands. I didn’t recognize them. They seemed like someone else’s. Has my age finally decided to stake its claim, I contemplated. I began to feel my claustrophobia set in. Has this room always been this small? And does he have to take up the whole bed? I mean it is my bed. Shit. And he ain’t that big. Fine, he is…but I mean damn.

I rolled toward my edge of the bed and wondered how and when I went from owning a lovely queen-sized bed with 600-count Egyptian sheets and a silk-cotton duvet to owning… an edge. My feet searched my bedroom’s wood floor for the comfort of my worn-in slippers as I sat up. At least those were still mine. As they slid into the lamb’s wool, my feet settled into the molding they’d created and I reveled in the familiar shape. It’s all I had left to hold on to. The molding I’d created on my W Hotel mattress, that had taken two years to get just right, was long gone. The dip formed by allongé arms and arabesque legs had been distorted beyond recognition by box-out shoulders and jumpshot knees. Ugh.

I pulled on my robe and heard him turn over and grunt something. I’d learn to ignore the unconscious ramblings. How did I not know he talked in his sleep before I accepted his proposal? That, for sure, would’ve been a deal breaker. I only half listen to him when he’s awake; now, I have to ignore him while he’s sleep too?

I got up and heard myself shuffling to the bathroom. It somehow reminded me of my nana. She used to shuffle everywhere. Hell no. Not yet. I ain’t that old. I consciously picked up my feet as I traveled toward the light at the end of the hall. He’d left the light on again…all night. “Oh please believe he will be paying that bill,” I thought out loud, with half a mind to go back to the bedroom just to smack him in the back of his head. I took another step into the bathroom and almost lost my life as I tripped over a pair of Nike Uptowns and slid on the cover of a Men’s Health magazine. I caught the sink with a spastic grab right before my head hit the tub. “Motherfu-ugh!” I took a moment to gather myself before slowly sitting on its edge.

As I sat on the cold porcelain and let my heart fall back down my throat I surveyed my bathroom. Shoelaces dangled on the doorknob and a toothbrush laid by the sneakers that had very nearly ended me. Cleaning his precious kicks and simultaneously soiling my life. Isn’t it ironic. I had learned how to deal with the occasional pair of dirty drawers and the way he never ever neverevernever remembered to close the Gillette shaving cream that always seemed to foam all over my counter on its own. But what finally caught and held my darting gaze was completely unforgiveable.

I sprung from where I sat and damn near ran back to my bedroom. In seconds, I was on “his side” of MY bed with his Men’s Health rolled up tight in my hand. All reason had escaped me and had been quickly replaced with a resolved anger.

WHAP!

He jumped out of his slumber in response to the magazine smacking him on the back of his freshly lined caesar haircut.

“Woman, have you lost your mind?!”

WHAP!WHAP!WHAP!

It was as if my hands really weren’t mine; they had a mind of their own and they resented those jumpshot knees, at the moment, just as much as I did.

WHAP!

Legs, arms, broad back, butt–wherever I could reach I went to smacking.

“Are you crazy??! What is wrong with you??!!” he yelled trying to find the comforter to dull the hits that against his manly physique were mere nuisances.

“YOU! PEED! ON! THE! SEAT!” I yelled back between throwing licks. “AND! THE! GOT! DAMN! FLOOR! What are you an animal??!!”

“Am IIII the animal??” he yelled back. “Do you see yourself right now??”

I paused in an exhausted huff and quickly examined myself in the mirror. “What?!” I asked with the same intensity, though I knew I looked a hot mess: Curlers half in, half out, robe half on, half off. “Stop tryna change the damn subject,” I hissed. He wasn’t going to get off that easily. “Is this what it’s gonna be? Is this what I have to look forward to after the wedding?? Pissy toilet bowls and breaking my ribs tripping over your size-13s??

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked without budging. “Am I taking up too much space?”

“You’re 6′5″! Of course you’re taking up space!”

“It’s like that?” I could tell he was slightly offended but more than anything amused at how insane I looked.

“You rubbed out my molding! It took years to make that molding.” I cried, sounding more like a whiny 3-year-old than a grown woman who recently got engaged.

“Your what??”

“Nothing,” I muttered. I had lost my momentum and just wanted to lay back down now that I was going nowhere near that toilet to pee.

“What is this really about baby?”

He was up now and wanted to talk, as if I hadn’t heard enough of him talking all night in his sleep. I, on the other hand, was done talking. Besides, even though I was frustrated with his messiness and the infiltration of his manly things throughout my prissy lair, I knew that those things weren’t what it was really about. I didn’t want to talk about what it was really about.

“Nothing, just forget it. You wouldn’t understand,” I said with a finality.

“Well, maybe Terrence will,” he stabbed.

Every muscle in my body tensed at the name and I listened to him roll back over triumphantly.

Shit, I thought. Guess he’s not the only one who talks in his sleep.