Tappin' On Thirty by Candice Dow Page A

cold shower. As it began to deflate, she kissed me on the cheek and patted my nature. “I’ll take care of you later. I gotta go.”
    She rushed from the room. I lay back on the bed. When the front door slammed, I returned to making love to Taylor.

8
    TAYLOR
    I sn’t it funny that we know they’re not going to call, even when they promise they will? I woke up to a text message from Scooter. THINKING ABOUT U. WILL CALL SOON. After nearly a month passed, this was the best I could get. Why would he send a message like that on a Friday night at 11:43? Was this message a result of a damn lovers’ quarrel? Call me because you think I’m the greatest, not because your damn girlfriend has gotten on your nerves! I shouted at my cell phone praying that somehow my thoughts could be telepathically communicated to Scooter. Text messaging is the closest thing to blatantly saying, “I’m not interested.” I refused to respond. If he was sincerely thinking about me, he would have called me. Huffing and puffing to myself still would not erase the truth, Scooter had no score to settle. He’d given me his best ten years ago and he owed me nothing.
    When my mother called a few minutes later, I picked up but all I was thinking about was his text message. “Taylor, are you there?” My mother asked, in a concerned tone.
    I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”
    â€œHow are you?”
    â€œI’m good. Nothing much going on. Just working a lot.”
    She sighed. “I can only imagine.”
    â€œHow’s Daddy?”
    â€œHe’s good.”
    Then, her normal questions followed. She didn’t have much to say to me. Nor did I to her. I was this independent single woman and she was Bishop Jabowski’s wife, nothing more, nothing less. The spice of our conversations had long been extinct. Finally, she asked about Scooter. The day after he came to church was the last time we had a decent chat.
    In an attempt to give her a slice of my life, I said, “He actually sent me a text message last night.”
    She perked up. “Really?”
    Trying not to overestimate the intent of the message, I just said, “He said I’ve been on his mind and he’ll call soon.”
    She chuckled sneakily, “Really, Taylor?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHe was always such a gentleman.”
    â€œMa, please.”
    â€œGod is good.”
    With a smirk on my face, I responded to the Black Christian motto. “All the time.”
    As if she’d gotten a quick dose of the Holy Spirit, she said, “Whew.” Then she finished the motto. “All the time.” I could hear her hand bang on the table to add thunder to the last three words. “God is good.”
    â€œYou sound real happy to hear from Scooter,” I said, nonchalantly.
    My mother rarely went above level two on a ten-point excitement scale, but right now she was tipping the scale. As if the words wouldn’t come out. She would begin, “I . . .” Then, that would stop with a “Whew.”
    Finally, she said, “I had been praying for months for God to send you a good man.”
    I frowned and looked at the phone. Was this really my mother? We hadn’t discussed relationships in almost six years. Her desire for me to settle down was this sort of unspoken mountain that kept us distant. Before she could finish, I interrupted, “Ma, Scooter is not who you’ve been praying for. He has a woman. A woman that he’s in love with.”
    â€œHe ain’t married.” Again, I gawked at my phone. Completely ignoring my desire to be a woman with dignity, she continued, “A few months ago, I decided to get descriptive about your husband.”
    Why wasn’t I consulted on her expectations for my husband? My head shook in disbelief as she explained. “I asked Him to send you a Christian. I requested him to be tall, brown, and equally educated. The