“Clear your weekend schedule for me?”
“Always,” I almost cry. Even over the telephone, Azmir breaks down walls inside of me.
There’s a pause before he murmurs, “Richard has been bouncing off the walls with proposals, trying to take over the world and drag my black ass with him. The Mauve project has been hugely successful, but demanding seeing that I’m the front marketing man for the US, South America, and Canadian markets. Brett has been out sick…some flu-like bug.” He lets out a long and deep breath. “And when my ever-efficient executive assistant is away, the mice play. I have very small eyes and limited vision on the home-front.” Then his eyes land on my breasts that are clad in one of his worn tank T-shirts. My nipples immediately tauten. “And—”
“…when you have a new wife, at home, causing more grief than relief—emotionally…physically—it makes for a tight Azmir Jacobs.” My eyes slam shut as my exasperation for myself stirs.
First Lady Twanece’s voice pops into my head when she heeded during one of our premarital counseling sessions, “Men of leadership and those that govern others have a short attention span for complaints. They are solution-driven and can quickly become dismayed by cries of discontentment, even from the home. As his wife, it is your job to filter complaints, and what little you do bring to him, be sure it’s accompanied by solutions. Minimize those concerns that are not.”
Discovering those pictures has tipped me over the ledge. I feel aroused and guilt-ridden simultaneously. I don’t have a solution, or proof that it’s Dawn who leaked the pictures. All I have is gut intuition. I don’t want to be that type of partner to him.
“Azmir, I’m sorry…for everything. Sorry for not telling you about my past—the shootings, the money, the murders, the secrets…the demons. I’m sorry for the nagging, the pushbacks, the pouting, the neediness. I’m sorry for trying to turn the blame on you for going the lengths you did to learn about my demons. It’s all still tender, but I’m glad you’re now in the know. I have nothing else to hide.” I exhale. “I just want to try to give you what you give me every day.”
He nods again, seemingly taking in my words. There’s a peaceful stretch of silence for a while. Then his telephone rings.
“Shit,” he swears underneath his breath after checking the caller’s I.D. “I gotta take this, Mrs. J.”
I nod, not feeling as sad as I did before unloading on him, but disappointed that he has to go.
“Since Brett is out, I’ll have Dawn forward the details to his temp that will, in turn, forward you an itinerary for this weekend; I’ll be doing Mauve promos.”
I steel against the plush pillows of the bed at the mention of her name. I haven’t forgotten my suspicions of what she’s done, but momentarily escaped them to reconnect with my husband. I don’t want any dealings with Dawn, don’t even want her name pouring from his delicious lips.
“Aye,” Azmir calls my attention back to him. “Don’t pack panties, you won’t be needing them.”
My mouth waters at his carnal promise, “O-okay,” I squeal and readjust myself in my seat, feeling all of a sudden liquidated that quickly.
Tonight, I dream my favorite dreams: those of six feet and four inches of dark chocolate blanketing my needy body.
Time speeds up considerably after that soul cleansing conversation with Azmir. I attend my counseling session, Bible study, and dance class for the week. My travel itinerary arrives the following day via email, detailing my flight plan and car travel to the hotel where Azmir will be staying in Washington. Overlaying my disdain from Dawn having a hand in this wonderful information is my excitement of seeing Azmir. I’m looking forward to doing absolutely nothing with him, but raise his heart rate and race his breathing with varied parts of my anatomy. I also have an evening with Erin to look forward to.
While on our way to the restaurant, I get a call from April, reminding me that I never followed up on her voice message to me a few days earlier. Certainly, nothing April has to offer is a topic I want to hash out in front of Erin, so I let the call go to voicemail. After listening to it, I tell myself not to forget to contact her next week sometime, seeing I’ll be leaving for Washington Friday morning and won’t return until late Sunday.