Free After The Dance by Lori D. Johnson

or whatever you want to call it into running the idea by Bet. Feeling for all the world like some poor sap who’d just let himself get talked into bungee-jumping off the Hernando de Soto bridge, I got her on the phone, hurriedly pitched the plan to her, then braced myself for the verbal head-bashing I figured would follow. Yeah, I ended up with my face broke all right, but only because Bet pulled a fast one. Man, instead of launching into a lengthy questioning of my sanity, she did something far worse—she asked to speak to Faye.
    Now, you know, those two birds cackling at each other was the last thing I wanted. To be perfectly honest, the thought that a lady friend of mine and my ex might actually be capable of indulging in a civil conversation was, for me, totally inconceivable. But I went ahead and handed over the phone, and to my total astonishment, after Faye got through running down the deal, Bet was cool with it. She even went so far as to okay an application of the clear nail polish the girls had been lobbying so hard for. What can I say, man? Just when you think you’ve got them all figured out, they switch up on you.
    I certainly never would have pegged Ms. Faye as the type who’d spend an entire evening at my place playing Scrabble with my daughters, doing their nails, and sitting on the floor between them while they watched some silly kid show on Nickelodeon. But she did. And she seemed pretty content doing it.
    Even after Nora skipped out on us to don her managerial cloak for the good folks down at the Bulk Mail Center, Faye stuck around. Actually, I was really digging her company and after I’d sent the twins off to get washed up and ready for bed, I told her as much. But when I asked if she’d decided where she wanted to go prior to the rendezvous I thought we’d tentatively scheduled for Sunday, her answer snatched my happy butt back into the bitter reality.
    After lighting up a cigarette and taking a couple of puffs, she looked at me through the smoky haze and said, “You’re still interested in going out?”
    “Heck, yeah,” I said. “Matter of fact, there’s gonna be an Al Jarreau concert on Mud Island next weekend. I could get us tickets if you want to go.”
    A nice jazz set would be right down her alley, is what I figured. But nooo! Instead of getting bubbly behind the suggestion, she sighed, like just the very thought made her tired. “Carl, I hope you’re not forgetting what I said aboutnot trying to take this relationship any place other than the bedroom” is what she had the nerve to up and tell me.
    I told her, “No, I haven’t forgotten. And the bedroom is ultimately where I’d like to see us end up, too. I guess I’m just operating from the premise that getting there is half the fun. The way I look at it, the only thing the two of us going out and having a good time together is bound to do is make the passion between us all the more intense.”
    Now, after a rap that sweet, any other sister would have at least cracked a smile. Not Faye. She just sat there puffing like a chimney and eyeballing me like I’d just passed gas without saying “excuse me” or something. Man, I’m telling you, sometimes it just doesn’t pay for a brother to try and play nice.

HER
    Girl, what was I supposed to do, applaud? I just sat there, like most any other intelligent woman would have, and tried to figure out just what percentage of the brother’s rap was real and what percentage was the usual rot.
    Something about my silence must have unnerved him because no less than ten seconds into it, he jumped up and said, “Look, if you really don’t want to do the date thing, it’s cool. Sleep on it, why don’t you, and get back with me about it later. Either way it goes, though, I’d still like to see you sometime tomorrow.”
    I could tell by the expression on his face I’d hurt his feelings again, which hadn’t been at all my intent. To make up for it, I told him, “Well, you know the early