I Almost Forgot About You by Terry McMillan Page B

pages without seeing what was on them.
    “I am. And you’re interested in money?”
    His crooked smile emerged while he shook his head, and I believe it was at that very moment I crossed over.
    “I’m interested in money management. And you.”
    We knew we were already possessed and stopped pretending we were studying and just packed up our books and highlighters and walked down Telegraph Avenue to a restaurant full of Boston ferns and spider plants and vanilla incense, and I said, “Wait a second. Before we walk into this house of ill repute, what’s your name?”
    That crooked smile again. “It’s Michael. I don’t have a last name. And what does one call you to get your attention?”
    “Georgia.”
    “I’ll bet you a burger you’re not from there.”
    “I’ll bet you some fries you’re right.”
    We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner in that restaurant and would probably still be there had they not been closing. In ten hours we discovered who we were. Where we came from. Why we were here. He looked into my eyes when he spoke, which made me uncomfortable at first until I began to soften. Then melt. He said please and thank you and “Would you mind if I…?” and “Have you ever considered…?” and “Did you know if…?” and he rolled up his sleeves when we got to Malcolm X and Socrates and God and freedom and pain and love and beauty and honesty and why Berkeley and where on earth do we go from here?
    He walked me to my dorm and kissed me on my cheek. Then he asked if I’d mind if he swore. And I said go ahead. And he said, “Damn.”
    And I said, “Damn is about right.”
    A year later I was honored to be his wife, and he said he felt lucky to be my husband.
This is what he gave me:
    An open door to his heart.
    Peace of mind.
    A beautiful daughter.
    Joy.
This is what we did:
    Traveled every chance we got.
    Went to church at least twice a month.
    Went to live concerts.
    Danced. Everywhere.
    Tried to read a book a week, but it ended up being every two because parenting and work consumed us.
    Prayed.
This is what he taught me:
    How to look beneath the surface, behind closed doors.
    How to ski downhill.
    How to rub up against him in public without anyone noticing. We loved crowds. He’d put his hands on my ass and slowly slide them up and down like we had all day.
    How to drive a five-speed and floor it and how to downshift.
    How to appreciate foreign films. How to read the subtitles without moving my lips.
    How to do nothing.
This is how he loved me:
    In the morning, every morning, he kissed me on my cheek or my forehead or my lips or my shoulder or my eyelids or my nose and said, “Good morning, beautiful.”
    He kissed me good night every single night.
    He held my hand everywhere we walked.
    He always looked me in the eye when we talked, and he listened to whatever came out of my mouth.
    He smiled at me, and sometimes I busted him smiling at me.
    He read to me.
    He let me fall asleep on top of him.
    He took my braids out.
    He spooned me almost every night.
    He whispered in my ears. Kissed them.
    He asked if he could take me out on a date.
    He asked if I was married, and if so, he wanted to steal me from him.
    He sucked my fingers.
    He sucked my toes.
    He squeezed my hand during romantic movies.
    He wrapped his legs around mine.
    He told me I never had to be afraid of anything.
    He promised he would never hurt me.
    He promised he would never cheat on me.
    He promised he would never lie to me.
    He promised me that divorce would never be an option for him.
    For five years I didn’t think it was possible to feel this good.
    For five years I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy.
    But then he forgot all those promises he’d made. He forgot why he loved me. He simply stopped loving me.
And this is how he did it:
    He stopped talking to me unless I spoke to him.
    He stopped holding my hand.
    He stopped kissing me good night.
    He stopped kissing me good morning.
    He stopped kissing me.
    He