Free God Don't Make No Mistakes by Mary Monroe

for the next five minutes. Suddenly, he began to yip yap like a magpie about things of no importance to me—sports, his job, the grout in his bathroom, and his mama’s health.
    Roscoe sometimes seemed like he had a mild split personality disorder. There were times when I correctly predicted what he was going to say or do, and there were times when he surprised me and did something that I didn’t expect. Tonight was one of the nights that he surprised me.
    Without a word, he cruised past the restaurant where he had reserved a booth with a candlelit table for us to have a quiet dinner. I promptly brought that to his attention. He promptly told me that he had decided to take me to his house instead. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I canceled our reservation.”
    â€œNo, not really. But it would have been nice for you to let me know before now,” I mouthed.
    Roscoe lived alone on the outskirts of town, across the street from the city park and two blocks from the steel mill where Rhoda’s husband, Otis, worked. “I’m kind of in the mood for a quiet evening at home,” he grinned, not even bothering to ask if the change of plans was all right with me.
    Since I liked the big white house that Roscoe had recently remodeled and because it was in such a nice scenic location, I didn’t protest. “That’s fine with me.” I smiled.
    â€œGood! I figured you’d say that,” he gushed. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You are the kind of low-maintenance woman that a real man can appreciate, on account of you are so easy to please.”
    I was somewhat disappointed that he’d changed our plans without consulting me, but I decided that I’d get something out of it anyway. I didn’t want to admit to him that I was glad we were not going to be around a mob of people in a busy restaurant. After the day that I had endured, I needed to be somewhere with some peace and quiet. That was one thing. Another thing was that Roscoe had a large garden in his backyard. It contained a variety of fruit and vegetables that he often sold at the farmers’ market on weekends during the summer and fall. I could load up on strawberries, potatoes, tomatoes, yams, or cucumbers; maybe all of them. And if I got a little sex, too, that would be an additional bonus. That made me smile, but not for long. Sex with Roscoe was rare to say the least. Very rare. In the three months that we had been together, we had made love only three times. Actually, it was two-and-a-half times. During the middle of the second time, we had to stop so I could go use the bathroom. When I returned to his bedroom five minutes later, he had put his pajamas back on and was snoring like a moose.
    â€œI hate to bring this subject up, but my lumbago’s been bothering me all week. I can’t get too romantic tonight,” he told me, casting a few nervous glances my way. “I hope that’s all right with you.” I couldn’t figure out why Roscoe even bothered to be apologetic anymore. Now that I knew what I knew about him, the one thing that I didn’t expect to do with him when we got together was have sex. “Sex is not all that it’s cracked up to be anyway, huh?”
    â€œNo, it’s not,” I agreed, my smile fading. It was moments like this that I missed Pee Wee the most.

CHAPTER 11
    I ASSUMED THAT ROSCOE WAS GOING TO HAVE SOME TAKEOUT items delivered. He surprised me again when we entered his house. As soon as he clicked on the living room light, he led me straight to the kitchen.
    â€œI hope you like smothered chops and gravy over garlic mashed potatoes,” he told me with excitement in his voice. Roscoe was a good cook for a man, and surprisingly fit for one who liked to indulge himself with all of the foods that liked to stick to a person’s body. “I thought that a home-cooked meal would be more enjoyable than us going to a