I Almost Forgot About You by Terry McMillan

to close my eyes for a few minutes.”
    “Well, don’t bother getting dressed. I’m on my way home. These folks must’ve all popped a Xanax or something. No one even laughed. It was boring. With one exception.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Well, they say you can talk a person up.”
    “You are not telling me Michael was there.”
    “I kid you not. He was with some cute Asian chick who looked like one of her parents must be black, but she was also young enough to be his daughter.”
    “He always liked them young and Asian, so what else is new? Wait a minute. Is this some kind of setup, Wanda?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. He just moved back to the Bay Area.”
    “I’m thrilled. And?”
    “And what?”
    “So how’d he look?”
    “Well, you know we’ve always had different taste in men.”
    “I mean did he look healthy?”
    “Violet thought he looked old. She was talking his ear off when I left.”
    “Did he ask about me?”
    “Of course he did.”
    “And what did you tell him?”
    “That you’re alive and thriving.”
    “Was he wearing a wedding ring?”
    “No.”
    “Figures.”
    “He did give me his card and asked me for your number.”
    “You didn’t give it to him, I hope?”
    “Of course I did. And he’s going to call you, and you’re going to talk to him.”
    I slide down the wall to the floor. “I have nothing to say to Michael.”
    “Georgia, this was part of your plan. So look at this as divine intervention. And try not to be a bitch when he calls.” She laughs.
    I try to laugh, too, but I can’t.

It’s the crack of dawn. I’m making coffee when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my bathrobe pocket. I know it can’t be my mother, because she’s not back from her cruise. It’s probably Frankie, who only calls this early from New York when she needs me to help her with yet another unsolved mystery in the ongoing saga of why her checking-account balance is negative. Of course I’ll send it. Then again, maybe Estelle wants to confide in me for a change. She should know she can trust me. Besides Justin, I’m her biggest ally. And I’ll help any way I can.
    But when I pull out the phone, I see MICHAEL MAYFIELD on the screen. You have got to be kidding me. It’s one thing to call the day after, but 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday? I drop the phone in the sink like it’s hot and watch it slide around the stainless basin until it stops.
    I could kick Wanda’s ass. He’s still the same arrogant son of a bitch he always was. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since 2002, but I was on my best behavior at Estelle’s college graduation. I sat six chairs away from his not-as-pretty-as-I-thought-she’d-be wife at the luncheon, and I planted and replanted a faux smile on my face whenever I caught him looking at me. “I’m so proud of our daughter” were my last words to him before waving good-bye in slow motion. What could he possibly want to talk about? He must want something. And right this minute I don’t want to know what it is, at least not before my frigging coffee.
    I drink two cups. I water the plants Percy thinks I neglect. I empty the trash. I microwave a Hot Pocket and take my sweet time eating it. I chase it with a glass of orange juice. I put three towels in the washer and turn it on. I’m disappointed when there’s nothing in the dryer that needs folding. I’m trying to remember if I have any pets I’ve forgotten I have that might need to be fed. When I finally pick the phone up out of the sink, it almost feels as if Michael can see me. I hop onto a barstool and listen to what he has to say: “Hey there, Georgia. It’s me, Michael. I’m sure Wanda and Violet probably told you I moved back to the Bay Area, and I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner, just to catch up. They said you’re doing great. Not that I’m surprised. It’d be nice to see for myself.”
    Dinner? He sounds more like an old friend than the ex-husband I still despise. I take a few