“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”
He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?
No, he was not.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”
“What?” he asked.
“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”
“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.
“I’m hungry,” I replied.
“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”
The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.
“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.
There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”
“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed frequently,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”
“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.
“You can get your burger. The omelet’s just for me. And you can’t come over. I have plans this evening.”
He didn’t sound amused when he asked, “You got plans?”
“I do,” I confirmed.
“What plans?” he pushed.
“I’m washing my hair,” I snapped. “Now, the butter in the skillet has melted. I have to go. I’m sure I’ll talk to you later…someday.”
“Am—”
I hit the button to disconnect, turned off the ringer and turned my phone over so I couldn’t see the display. When it vibrated, making noise against my counter, I shoved it in a drawer and picked up the remote to turn on my system across the room, bringing up Pandora and listening to my Billie Holiday station.
The day was gray and drizzling. I was eating alone. Mickey was probably still dating a redhead who was not me. And he thought he could come over whenever he could squeeze me into his life.
It was time for the blues.
I was about to slice the side of my fork through the finished omelet, and not looking forward to it, when the banging came at my door.
My head whipped that way.
Through the glass, I saw Mickey.
On no, he was not banging on my door like he was angry when he said we needed to make plans and I agreed and asked when, then he did not bother to reply to me.
I wasn’t sitting around, anxiously awaiting his attention!
And I was not going to be the type of woman who accepted the scraps of attention from a man.
He had a busy life? He had things going on? We had to plan and be patient and time our moments together?
I could do that.
If we spoke about it, like two adults, and we both knew where we stood.
Not Mickey expecting I’d be hanging around waiting for him to decide to bring some burgers to me.
And being one of those two adults, the one not banging on someone’s door, I decided I’d be adult enough to share that with him.
I dropped my fork, stomped across the landing, unlocked the door and threw it open.
“I have a bell, you know,” I informed him acidly.
He moved in, his big body in motion meaning I had no choice but to get out of his way, so I did.
I watched him turn and did this shutting the door.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
“Washing your hair?” he asked back angrily.
“Yes,” I returned. “Though I haven’t gotten to that portion of my exciting evening yet. However, before I get to it, I’ll thank you not to bang on my door, which has beautiful stained glass in it that I very much like and would prefer it stays exactly how it is. So, in future, I’ll ask you to use the bell.”
He planted his hands on his hips, asking, “What’s this game, Amy?”
I crossed my arms on my chest and returned, “What game, Mickey?”
“Said I was comin’ over tonight, I’d bring dinner. And you got somethin’ up your ass and you’re dishin’ that shit to me for no fuckin’ reason.”
“You did not say you were coming over. I asked when you had a free evening this week. I asked that yesterday morning. Since then, I’ve heard nothing from you.”
“Took a coupla hours to reply but I did and I said tonight and I’d bring dinner.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You did not.”
“Fuck,” he leaned back and threw out his hands, “I did.”
I glared at him while stomping to my kitchen. I had to stop glaring at him to yank my phone out of the drawer and pull up his text string.
I recommenced glaring at him when I stomped back to him, shoving my phone his way.
“You…did…not.”
He aimed his angry scowl at my phone, his eyes narrowed, then he dug out his phone.
I crossed my arms on my chest as he ran his thumb over the screen for some time before he muttered, “Fuck, texted that to Janice Quiller.”
My stomach started roiling.
“And who’s Janice Quiller?” I asked.
Mickey looked at me. “Client of Ralph’s.”
“Oh yes?” I asked disbelievingly.
His expression turned stormy. “Yeah, Amelia. She is. And she replied she didn’t understand, and I didn’t understand what she didn’t understand so I texted her back something about the job, which was what we had been texting about. Answered her question. The texting died and I didn’t realize I’d fucked up.”
Well, clearly there was a mistake and it was an innocent one.
But somehow, that didn’t make me any less angry.
Mickey wasn’t either.
I could tell when he said, “And not real big on you insinuating that Janice could be somethin’ else to me.”
“If that’s the case then perhaps you’ll take this moment to share where things stand with you and Bridget.”
“Bridget?” he asked, looking perplexed, like he’d never heard that name in his life.
God!
Really?
“Yes,” I returned. “You see, you made it very clear when it became clear something might be happening between you and me that I needed to get rid of Bradley. It was uncomfortable and I’d already planned to do that, but just in case you have any ongoing queries about that, I’ll confirm that I ended things with Bradley. Now I’d like to know where things stand with you and Bridget.”
“Went out with her twice,” he told me.
“Is that your answer?” I pushed.
“Not sure what more you need,” he shot back.
“Are you going out with her again?” I explained, and his stormy expression turned thunderous.
“You really askin’ me that shit?”