Hot Flash by Carrie H. Johnson

into the bag, taken down by the force of my own punch that grazed the side of the bag and pulled me forward.
    â€œYou are defeating yourself with no focus.” It was Kim. He surprised me. He hadn’t been home when I entered using the key he’d given me.
    â€œYes, I’m doing a fine job at defeating myself lately,” I agreed.
    â€œFocus,” Kim commanded.
    â€œToo much going on to focus on this freakin’ bag, Mr. Kim.”
    â€œIf you focus on what you are doing, the rest will come.”
    Kim squatted on the sidelines and nodded for me to continue. Thirty minutes later, sweaty and sucking air, I hugged the bag for support, expecting another “Focus” from Kim, but he was gone. When I left, he was nowhere in the house, or at least he didn’t answer my call.
    There was a voice mail from Calvin when I got home. I called back.
    â€œMs. Mabley. Good to hear your sweet voice,” he said.
    â€œI’m sorry I’ve been AWOL lately. Work is consuming me as usual.”
    â€œI can help soothe that if you’ll allow me to dazzle you with dinner at Bistrot La Minette, French wine, soft music, kneading of your most tender spots.”
    I laughed at his attempt to pronounce the restaurant name with a French accent. I’d never been to La Minette, as it was way out of my league. I told Calvin I would be ready in an hour. I showered and went the distance to make the mess on my head presentable. I already knew what I would wear—a Red Valentino, a black slinky number I had scooped up on sale at Banje’s last year, along with black velvet pumps to match. I had agreed to a blind date orchestrated by Travis’s friend’s mother’s sister, whom I barely knew. I know, sounds desperate. Rather it was just me trying to accommodate my son and everyone else in my world. Maybe a little part of me was hopeful. Anyway, the dress was the bomb; the blind date needed bombing.
    Calvin came with corsage in hand and thugged out, wearing a black shirt against a black two-button vested suit with peak lapels and accented with a lavender tie. The presentation was a little overstated for my taste, but there was that charisma thing going on that gave me a hard-on, and the gentleman thing, and the “I’m the queen for the evening” thing, and the “I’m the most beautiful and sexiest woman on the planet” thing. All of which was slathered on, none overstated.
    He held the door to a late-model silver Porsche 911, black interior with red trim. Nice. Midlife-crisis car, no doubt. Calvin’s other car was an older Mercedes S430, white with black interior. Not too shabby by any means.
    He closed the door and scooted around to the driver’s side.
    â€œNice,” I said when we pulled away from the curb.
    â€œJust a little something I picked up for special occasions.”
    â€œSpecial occasions, huh.” We chuckled.
    â€œTell me again what you do.”
    â€œThat would take a while, when I’d much rather talk about you, what you do, and what I would like to do to you and with you.”
    â€œReally, Calvin. It’s been what, three months? And all I know about you is that you own the club and you can sing. Oh yeah, you live over the club, you’ve never been married—or so you say—and you don’t have any children. You’re a Philly boy by way of Alabama and . . .”
    â€œI’d say you know quite a bit.”
    â€œSooner or later you’re going to have to spill it. All of it.”
    â€œSo be it,” he whispered. He reached over and took my hand, kissed it, and held it next to his chest while he drove the rest of the way to the restaurant and Etta James crooned from the car stereo how she’d rather be a blind girl than watch her man leave.
    When we arrived at the restaurant, everyone, from the parking attendant to the hostess and the wait staff, lionized Calvin, and since I was on his arm, me too.