I Almost Forgot About You by Terry McMillan Page A

minutes to figure out how in the world I would posture some oh-by-the-way-how’ve-you-been-doing-all-these-years? courage and some I’ve-been-good-no-not-married-but-in-a-blossoming-relationship courage.
    I don’t have any.
    I walk into my room and fall across the bed and call my confidante.
    “This is what you said you wanted to do, so cut the bullshit,” Wanda says after I give her the lowdown. “Not including Michael makes you a hypocrite. So go catch up. It won’t kill you. And let me know if you fuck him. Bye.”
    She loves to hang up after she makes her point, but she’s right except for the sex part. I’d masturbate crossing the Bay Bridge before I’d even consider it. I sit up straight and dial.
    “Well, hello there, Georgia. I didn’t think you would call.” He sounds the same as he did thirty years ago. His voice is heavy, raspy, still confident. Bastard.
    “Why wouldn’t I? How in the world are you, Michael?”
    “I’m doing great. Just as I hear you’re doing. But I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
    “So what made you move back?”
    “I was offered a partnership with my old firm, and I missed the Bay Area. As you may or may not know, Estelle refuses to give me any information about you except that you’re alive, so I’ve stopped inquiring. But tell me what you’re up to these days. I do know you remarried.”
    “I did.”
    “And are you happy?”
    “I am. How about you?”
    “Divorced.”
    “Me, too. Was it the same woman you left me for?”
    “Oh, Georgia. Yes and no. Look, would it be possible to have dinner to see if we can call a truce? It would be nice to see you after all these years.”
    Without thinking about Wanda, I say, “Sure. Which side of the bay works for you?”
    “Really?”
    “What do we have to lose?”
    “Should I wear my bulletproof vest?”
    I burst out laughing at that.
    “I can come over to the East Bay if it’s easier,” he says.
    “No, I could use a drive.”
    “Does seven work for you?”
    “That’s fine. You want to choose?” I ask.
    “No. You choose. Just text me and I’ll be there.”
    “How will I recognize you, Michael?” I say with sarcasm.
    “My hair and beard are salt-and-pepper. And you?”
    “I look like Beyoncé’s twin. See you at seven.”
    —
    So now I have all day to kill. I go to the grocery store even though there’s nothing I need. I get a mani-pedi even though I just had one last week. I choose hot pink for some reason. I get my eyebrows waxed. I have some individual lashes added. I go to Nordstrom and buy an uplifting black outfit that makes me look slimmer.
    This kills most of the afternoon, which is why I need a nap. I lie down on the sofa in the family room and slide under a blue fleece blanket. I wiggle until my head rests on a pretty pillow I wish I’d made until I’m in a comfortable spot. I look around the room. It feels like I’m in a small museum. I stare at the furniture and wonder, if and when the house sells and I downsize, what I will keep and what I will let go. I watch the ceiling fan swirling slowly, and when I feel myself sinking, there is Michael. And me.
    —
    I met him in the campus library. We were both studying for hours at a long wooden table. Me for optometry and him for finance. As I started gathering up my notes, he said, “So you’re interested in how we see?”
    That was a good one.
    I tried not to blush, because I couldn’t tell if this was a come-on or if he meant it. After all, I had, from the corner of my eye, been pretending not to notice he was almost handsome, the color of raw honey, his thick lips so perfect I would’ve been willing to pay for a kiss, and from what I could see through those thick lenses, his eyes were chestnut brown, and Lord, he smelled so clean, like he’d just showered in fig and mint leaves or something, but whatever it was, I couldn’t stop inhaling him, and he’d been making it difficult for me to focus on anything ocular. I’d simply been turning