As Time Goes By: A BWWM Interracial Romance by Tiffany McDowell Page B

things I never
did.”
    “I’m sure I’ll soon read on the front page of some local
paper that you are insisting that you and I are engaged to be married. But what
you’re saying is that you and I are nothing.”
     He opened his mouth to respond, but then felt better of it.
He now understood that it wasn’t really Marg talking. It was really her
bitterness saying the words. At age thirty-three, she was angry over fifteen
years of futile dating, and understandably so. Years of loving men had not
produced a husband, and years of hoping at least one of those men would have
chosen her as his future bride, was also not seemingly in the works. He was
adamant that she not read anything into his public declaration that they would
be getting married come hell or high water. He had not meant to stir the pot,
nor awaken her bitterness, and yet he had managed to do both.
    “I don’t like lying,” Marg insisted. “Reporters are bound to
ask me about our so called engagement, and yet, I don’t even have a ring to
show them.”
     “Maybe it was a mistake to involve you in this campaign.”
     “What you’re really saying is that maybe it was a mistake
for you to involve me in your life at all!”
    “I never said that. You are purposely twisting everything
around again. I said what I said to the reporter because I was backed into a
corner. We are seeing each other outside of the campaign trail. Your mother
said as much and a whole lot more.”
    “So now it’s my mother’s fault that you lied about us being
engaged. Nice touch.”
    “You can be infuriating.”
     “And you can be such an asshole. I don’t think I want talk
to you for the rest of the day.”
     She hung up quickly then tossed the phone onto her bed. Her
volunteers had planned a rally for later that day, at a downtown Detroit
restaurant that was closing its doors for good. Another small business was
biting the dust. I was a great opportunity to further paint the mayor into a
corner over his abject failure at stopping jobs from bleeding out of the city.
The press was going to be there, and Marg was supposed to be there as well, but
now, she was not going to bother at all. She was in a rage. She had spent the
last fifteen years of her life dating men in earnest, fully expecting that Mr.
Right would emerge sooner or later, and there had been oodles of breathtaking
Mr. Rights for her to choose from, and she instinctively chose them all, except
that they predictably moved on to some other girl once they’d had their fill of
eye popping breasts and a world class booty.
     She brushed away a tear at the thought, trying not to let
her emotions overwhelm her. Somehow it just didn’t seem very fair. Men seemed
to like her, even love her, but taking her home to mother was always reserved
for the next woman to come along. She was now thirty-three, and although she
looked stunning for her age, and was an absolute knockout, it was always a
woman not as good looking as her to snare the particular man in question. And
she had no doubt that the same scenario would probably end up playing itself
out against the new man of her dreams. And when that happened, she would be
just as devastated, but not as surprised. It was as though she were being
punished over and over for the sins of someone else.
     The phone rang again.
     It was Arnold again.
     She was still mad. Fuck him! It suddenly dawned on her that
sooner or later he would be bringing down the damn hammer on her thick stupid
skull. Her sister had warned her not to jump into the latest relationship
waters with both feet, especially when those waters were insurmountably deep,
and way over her head. Her weary, shell shocked body shook in her slippers as
she supressed the new flood of tears. When would she ever learn?
     She tossed the phone in a rage toward the wall, hoping to
smash it into a million pieces, but if bounced off a wing chair cushion and
landed harmlessly on the plush carpeting, still ringing. She was