Sex and the Single Sister

by Maryann Reid

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The African American answer to Sex and the City---a collection of hip, sexy, funny novellas about successful black women in their twenties, on the dating scene, making all the wrong moves . . .

A fine ambitious sister on the rise to stardom, junior correspondent to NBC News, Farah's, has life on a string. And she's looking for a quick hook-up. But this sister's about to learn what happens when you take the fast track to love . . .Alaya fled the projects, determined not to be anybody's baby-mama, got her degree, and opened her own accounting firm. Everything is perfect. All she needs now is that perfect someone. Only holding out for "Mr. Right" may mean missing out on love altogether . . .Kenya, an almost-thirty successful investment strategist is plotting some strategies of her own to alleviate her "Can't Find a Husband" blues. So when her hot Latin neighbor's dog kicks sand in her face while she's meditating on the beach, she realizes that it not quite the first move she had in mind, but it seems to be fate. That is until an old flame comes strolling back into her life and she has to make a choice...Alexis is fabulously fine and fresh out of a stifling relationship with the "right man." She's got a wild side (to put it mildly) she's been dying to release. Enter Mike, a strong brother with rough edges and enough daring to indulge fantasies Alexis didn't even know she had...Waceera's travels all over the world have taught her one thing: there is no such thing as one good man. The world is her buffet and variety is the spice that keeps life yummy. The last thing on this sister's mind is settling down.

Release date: April 1, 2007

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

Sex and the Single Sister

STORY ONE
FARAH
24 BROOKLYN, NY








DATING STATUS:
Caught up with somebody else's catch
THOHGS, LAPTOPS, AND TOSSED SALADS
I'm attractive and slender, wrapped in cinnamon brown skin, with long, "good" hair and an attitude to match the assets. I graduated from the top educational institutions in the country. I'm bright--a B. A. and M. A. degree in political science from Columbia University and I'm a junior correspondent at NBC News. I have plans to buy a few brownstones in Brooklyn and basically kick some ass when it comes to making money!
Working at one of the nation's largest TV networks has its perks: free admission to costly events, meeting influential people, invites to all the right parties in the city, and mingling with politicians, officials, and the entertainment world. Like all jobs, it does have its flip side. I'm one of two black people hired as correspondents, which makes it rather lonely. I've been here since college and started as an intern. Though I'm a freelancer, I'm satisfied with that. The freelancer's life is always full of adventure: What will the next story be? Where is the next check coming from? As a freelancer you carve your own path, and with the right contacts you can basically live as good as a full-time worker--or better.
I've always been a writer, though. Before I could even write, I was thinking. I had an imagination that would put Disney World to shame! When I was five, a class assignment was to picture what lives would we live as adults. Considering that as young kids we could barely write a complete, coherent sentence, we had to "express" our thoughts and feelings. While everyone else wanted tobe some cartoon hero, I wanted to be a princess who lived in a castle on Mars, had servants, and conquered the universe. As I got older, I put my imagination into structured stories. In high school I was the assistant editor of the school newspaper, The Times Observer. As a sophomore, I uncovered a story where a senior was found out to be bribing a male teacher for an "A" before graduation. The senior, who was very popular, was expelled and the teacher suspended. Students loitered the hallways with newspapers claiming I had made the incident up as a way to get attention for my stories. I lost several friends and some officials refused to be used as sources for any of my future stories. But I got past that.
In college the stories were a bit more on the sexier side of things. The name of the college newspaper was Ebony Voices. You guessed it! It was the black student publication and I was editor of the relationships section, where I would get all the dirt on who was doing who and report it. A few relationships and egos were broken. Such as the boyfriend who was seeing another girl who lived right next door to his girlfriend in the same dorm. He would sneak out of his girlfriend's room and hide in the stairwell. When the coast was clear, he would knock on the other girl's door and be quickly let in. The "other girl" called in the story in hopes of finally breaking up his relationship. We promised to withhold her name, but we gave his name and the girlfriend's name. This was the biggest thing on campus since the boyfriend was the top point guard in his NCAA division. His girlfriend ended up dumping him and becoming friends with the "other girl." I guess in college people don't take certain things as seriously as we do in the real world.
Another incident involved a freshman having an affair with thedean of students. His name and full title were withheld, but the freshman gave detailed accounts of their times together, including the worn-down church shoes he would wear on every date. Since that article, all eyes were on administrators with church shoes! Instead of me being labeled a troublemaker, in college, I gained even more friends through my stories. Somehow everyone thought if they became friends with me, I wouldn't hang their ass out to dry. But if you put your business out in the street, someone is bound to sweep it up.
It was in college when I decided the school newspaper was just not enough. My professor introduced me to Lena, editor at the Daily News, who was a former student at Columbia. I was an intern there for a while but convinced them to let me write a story by the end of summer. It wasn't exactly Pulitzer-prize work but a small story on the fight to take back a community park. Finally, Lena let me do a piece on relationships between students and professors. The article included homosexual affairs, too. It did raise some eyebrows, but that time I blamed Lena. Anytime someone asked me why I included some private details, I would just shake my head and say, "My editor made me do it." The article was a hit and got me lots of local attention. I continued writing for the newspapers, as well as Black Enterprise magazine. I was lucky. This isn't usually the case with many young writers--black or white.
Landing the job at NBC was a godsend. Going from print to TV can make your head spin! Television is supersonic compared to print, where a lead time can be several months. When I told an editor I worked for about my television goals after graduation,she gave me the number of a "good friend" at NBC. The next week I was interviewing with Myra, and two weeks later I was traveling between New York and D.C. covering congressional/government issues and interviewing the bigwig policy makers and breakers. Anyone who's been to D.C. knows that the government can be very male dominated. Everywhere I went, there was a man I had to speak to, meet, or shake hands with. Most of them were grumpy, conservative old men, but many were young, aggressive, attractive, and on the road to success.
I don't have many capital affairs to share except one where I was covering a local party convention. On my way back from the vending machine after a long night of transcribing an interview, I walked past the half-opened door of an up-and-coming senator and his friends being entertained by several "ladies" in his hotel room. As soon as I made it down the hall to my room, the door slammed shut. Just earlier that evening the same senator had been campaigning with a doting wife and family standing at his side. There are always rumors of indiscretion in D.C., but I was more interested in making my own scandal than reporting others. Well, not a real scandal, but a private one.
When in town, meeting men in D.C. is not a problem. A lot of reporters stay in the same hotel for a few days when covering a story about a convention, meeting, or conference. At the end of the day when the interviews have finished, note taking has ceased, and keyboards have rested--it's time to head to the bar. The scene is like any other one, but this time the suits are lined with fat pockets. The same handsome reporter who ignored me in the hotel lobby is now trying to whisper sweet nothings in my ear;the bar's patrons being policy makers who indirectly or directly have an effect on the laws and administration of this country doesn't make a bit of difference. It's just like when I'm in New York--once a bar always a bar.




THOUGH IT MAY SOUND like I'm doing pretty well, my Grandma Jesse always asks, "So when you gonna settle down and find you somebody nice?" My answer is, "I'm only twenty-four!" All I get is one of those, "These young people today ..." looks. No matter how much I accomplish in my professional life, my personal life always gets the most scrutiny.
Working in TV news is constant work, unusual hours, and the schedule is unpredictable. One week you are working on the 5 P.M. show, and the next day you are doing the 4 A.M. show. All I wanted to do when I got home was sleep! Sadly, the men I'd be dating would think I was playing hard to get or cat-and-mouse games when really I just didn't have the energy. Some of them I really liked, but eventually they would disappear after a few weeks. I guess they have too many choices out there. But that was then and this is now. The career girl approach has landed me by myself too many nights. When the opportunity presents itself for me to have a good time, I'm there.
Still, there is the other issue of adjusting to what men want today. Men say they want a good woman, someone with goals, who takes care of herself. But when they see the hoochie mama with her breasts pouring out her shirt, their attention diverts to that and they completely lose interest in me. Or how about when I cook and try to get domestic, like I think some men appreciate,they want to be with the glamour queens and divas who think Pine-Sol is a new tanning lotion!
I'm a good woman who doesn't curse and has morals, but that doesn't excite the men I meet anymore. Playing by the rules sometimes lands me with the kit but not the caboodle.




IT'S THE BEGINNING Of my few days of vacation from work! No interviews, producers, or deadlines to meet. It's a Sunday night and I don't try to leave the house on Sundays, more less go to a club. But my girl, Lola, is really excited about going to Club Lotts on Spring Street. We heard it was off the hook on Sunday nights; and when we rolled past there Memorial Day weekend, we saw all kinds of people stepping out in everything from Jimmy Choos to Bakers, and from Range Rovers to Kias.
It was about thirty minutes before I had to meet Lola at the Bergen Street train station, and I just couldn't get myself looking right. I had on some tight, stretch, black pants; a strappy black tank top, and sandals. Since I was feeling really modest (being Sunday and all), I threw on a brown, long-sleeve sweater. And I even had on my work sandals. Flats! I swore when I first saw the place I would be in my tight Betsey Johnson dress, Dolce & Ga-banna heels, skin glowing, and hair flowing. I was not out to meet anyone tonight but just to chill with my girl before she left for Baltimore on a business trip.
Once we got inside, it was like a scene from those well-known rap videos. Victorian couches, chandeliers, and mirrors adorned the room, and a long, wooden bar ran the length of the roomupstairs. Everybody was posing, laid across a couch or sitting cross-legged on purple and red velvet sofas. With drinks in their hands, every once in a while someone would take a peek or glimpse at the sister or brother coming in. There were guys reaching over the bar buying girls drinks and scribbling numbers on yellow napkins.
It was a definite scene to be studied. Lola and I just sat on a couch and people watched for a while, listening to the sounds of De Angelo, R Kelly, and Mary J. Blige. When the DJ finally made it to the rap collection, people put their drinks down to get their dance on. Lola and I walked to the bathroom to touchup our hair and makeup, just in time to catch the end of Q-Tip's "Vivrant Thing."
Somehow we got caught up on the dance floor with the crowd. We could barely get halfway across the room! Lola and I just looked at each other and started dancing. After a few minutes, I lost Lola. There were more girls than guys on the floor, but at this point, the music was too good to be standing around. When Juvenile's "Back That Thang Up" came on ... everybody went crazy. Suddenly everybody got a big ass they want to back up!
I managed to dance on the perimeter of the floor--so it can look like I'm dancing and standing (just in case anyone wanted to ask me, I could look available). Out of nowhere, I hear someone next to me yell, "OW, OW!" I turn around to see who had the audacity to complain about someone stepping on their shoes, which happens a thousand times in a crowded club.
"Excuse me, miss, but I just bought these Gators! How yougonna do a brother like that and keep dancing?" He isn't the least bit serious. I notice the cutest smile across his lips, and he is supposed to be in pain.
I turn around and ignore him. About ten minutes pass, I'm about all backed up and feeling a bit tired. As I make my way through the crowd bumping shoulder after shoulder and being hit with drops of sweat from wanna-be Soul Train dancers, I walk to the bar for a drink. As I am waiting to get the bartender's attention, lo and behold, it's Gator man again.
He takes my sweaty hand, looks up, and begins counting oneby-one something invisible in the air. "I'm counting the angels up above because one of them has to be missing," he says, without a blink.
As I come out of the spell he put on me, I say, "That's a new one. So if I'm an angel, who are you? The devil?"
No answer. But Marcus' wit and bronze skin has me interested. For a moment, he just stares at me with those gorgeous, contrasting, light brown eyes, like I'm a plate of buffalo wings and a pitcher of cold lemonade with lemon bits.
He leans his six-foot-three, 230-pound, solid frame against the bar, as I press against him to make room for others trying to squeeze in. I looked around for Lola and saw that she had made herself right at home with a glass of red Alize, laughing with some guy with dreads down his back. Her type.
"Tell me what do angels do to keep busy?" he asks with a cute, boyish smirk.
"Protect the good from evil," I say, as I turn around with my back against the bar. I felt his hot breath against my neck and hisIssey Miyake cologne whispering my name as he slowly straightened up and got the bartender to come our way.
He bought me a Tangerine Cosmopolitan and himself a Hennesey and Alize. As I lick the corner of my lips to savor the Cosmo, I say, "I work at NBC during the day, but at night I'm fighting with the new laptop I bought. Are you into computers, by the way?"
"I'm especially into the HARD drive. The more bites and RAMS, the better," he says, with a sexy bedroom tone. I couldn't help but fall victim to his lines. His green Gators, Rolex watch, tailored pants, Caesar-cut hair, and hard, muscular body finally cracked open my defenses. And he knew it was working.
Lola finally walked over with the guy in the dreads. Marcus introduced the guy as his friend, Steve. It is a coincidence because Steve and Marcus look like total opposites. Marcus orders another round of drinks and pays for everyone's. We hurriedly sip the last of our drinks and head out to the dance floor as Sisqo's "Thong" starts playing.
Marcus wastes no time in trying to get to know my body better. Thighs like what, what what ... As we dance, his hands are casually slipping and touching my breasts, which are bouncing against his chest. Usually, I would dance at least an arm's length away from a guy, if there's enough room, but tonight was different. Marcus feels my thighs when I turn my back to him and move my body against his already firm dick. It was a hot, summer night, and my mood was loosening up. Unfortunately, Lola had to catch a flight in the morning.
When the song ended, Marcus pulled me over to a corner aswe both tried to catch our breath. He wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand and licked his thick lips. "Girl, you were shaking your body out there like you ain't got no mama!" He laughed. "When can I see you again?"
After I finish laughing like crazy at his country-ass remark, I say, "Just call me." I signal to Lola to give me a second. I take out a pen and I write my number on a napkin. I thought he would give me his, but he gives me his E-mail address. He tells me he just bought a computer, too, and wants to see if his E-mail works. I didn't give it a second thought. Usually I like giving guys my number first instead of me calling them. I leave him, standing with Steve near the steps to the basement lounge. I turned back to wave bye, but he was gone.




TWO DAYS AND COUNTING ... my little vacation is dwindling. I have to cram everything I need to do in these last two days, including lunch with dear old mom. We meet for brunch at the Blue Note where Chaka Khan is doing her thing as only a woman named Chaka can. In between Chaka's soulful sounds being interrupted by applause, my mom and I share tidbits of information of the latest happenings.
"Did you hear that Nadeera's mother got her that job in the mayor's office as the press secretary's assistant?" my mom asks, with one eye on Chaka and the other on me.
"Nadeera? That girl barely finished college! I thought she was still working as a bank teller!" I say, totally surprised because Nadeera hated politics and only used newspapers for cleaning her windows!
"Evelyn called up some big guy there who gave the press secretary a glowing recommendation. Now I hear that Nadeera don't like the place," she says, looking through her purse for a mirror. "I have a feeling them people don't like her! Who can blame them," she huffs.
My mom never liked Nadeera after she swore Nadeera stole five hundred dollars from her wall unit last summer when she was waiting for me to come home from a meeting. Nadeera had been left in the house alone, but she denies it till this day.
Shaking her head, my mom admits, "Now you know she will probably be out of there in no time. But it's good to see a black woman can wield some power around this town to get her daughter in such a high-profile position." The old black couple, seated behind us, looked at us annoyed as we continued our conversation.
"Tell me about that politician guy you met a few days ago? You said his name was Marvin?" my mom says, as she looks up from her cappuccino.
She knew damn well I met some guy at a club, but it was her way of dropping her so-called subtle hints.
"No." I sigh. "I met a guy when I went out dancing with Lola the other night." Chaka is leaving the stage for a break. It seems like I missed the whole show talking to my mom.
"His name is Marcus. It's just a boy, no big deal. And before you ask, yes, I am keeping my eyes open for that young, black congressman from Indiana," I say, rolling my eyes and using my perfectly pink-polished nails to push my hair back.
"Oh, that's right, a club. That's nice," she mumbles, lookingdown at her cup. "But that Mr. Lewis, I saw him on CNN the other day, and it still looks like he has a naked ring finger." She leans forward, whispering like she doesn't want to spill the news. If I didn't know my mom better, I would think she had some political goals herself because she was always trying to hook me up with a politician. But what are mothers for! I've had my eye on Mr. Lewis, I mean Remington, too. But at first glance he can look a bit too stuffy and conservative.
Little did my mom know that I'd been through Remington already. We had a little fling when I was covering the recent Republican National Convention. He's not that bad in bed, and his conservative manner is only an act that he wears outside the bedroom.
At thirty-two, Remington was in the middle of his second term in Congress and was handpicked to speak at the convention. He's prestigious, well liked, and an advocate for Christian groups and antismoking campaigns.
It was my first major political event and he gave a hair-raising speech to the crowd of supporters. My producer, Sharon, felt that interviewing some politicians and gathering information for the senior correspondents was something a young reporter could handle. On my first day I was too overwhelmed. After his speech I was lucky to spot Remington surrounded by a small group of reporters who were holding on to his every word. I watched as the cameras flashed each time he raised his hands for emphasis. I was automatically drawn to him, and my insides got warm just thinking about what fucking a congressman would be like. It was a fantasy.
At a reception in a nearby hotel, we met as he introduced himself to the reporters in the room. When it was my turn, he held my hand a little longer than the others. I guess being one of the few young sisters there caught his attention in a room full of white-haired politicians. I was charmed by his stocky, six-foot-one frame and his perfectly trimmed mustache, which teased the lining of his curvy upper lip. The gentle clasp of his hand around mine told me he was charmed, too, by my "Tina Turner" legs. The rumor is he's quietly looking for a wife. I was twenty-three and just trying to finish my story. After the reception he invited me to an after-hours spot in D.C., and we exchanged phony conversation about politics, journalism, and success.
"Yeah, that would be great if that could happen!"
"You're right we need leaders we can trust."
"Politics used to be more about integrity."
After we skipped the bull and, of course, after a few glasses of wine, we let our true colors show.
"Damn, I love the way your bottom lip just curls," he said.
"You have such a firm butt!" I responded by grabbing it.
"What are you doing after this?" he asked, leaning into me. "Let's talk in the suite. I have some CDs we can listen to."
We didn't listen to CDs but made our own music. A total exhibitionist, Remington had a foot fetish and loved role-playing--especially bad girl, good cop. He loved my feet so much, he dipped them in all types of sauces he kept, along with chilled bottles of wine, in a small refrigerator near his bed. Strawberry, cherry, and orange sauces would trickle down my feet and toes as he savagely licked and sucked every drop! He was a tender lover,who liked women to take control. Tying him to the bed while I straddled his face was his special request.
Even now when we see each other, we give each other that "If they only knew" look and let our eyes do the talking. It was a one-night stand, but he's my ally now and in D.C. you can never have enough of those.
Mom and I watch the crowd begin to talk among themselves while they wait for Chaka and her band to return from the break.
"Mommy Mr. Lewis is nice, but I hear he's courting some woman from his hometown. A family friend," I say, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. I didn't like Remington like that because I didn't really know him. But it's not so bad to be the girlfriend of a popular politician and that hadn't happened.
"And you know, I just want a regular man." I signal the waitress to bring another cappuccino to the table. Running my fingers through my curly, light brown hair (something I do when I am nervous), I say, "Politicians travel too much. I want a hard-working man who can be there for me and not have me wondering all night where he is."
My mom hurriedly swallows her last piece of carrot cake and dabs her mouth with a napkin. Pointing at me, she gives me that "a man is a man" speech--again.
"I done told you these men are going to do what they want to! If you keep worrying about keeping some man home and knowing his whereabouts all the time, you are going to be alone and miserable."
She catches her breath. "A man is a man. You can't change that, just change how you respond to things."
My mom is a single woman. My dad was seeing her while he was married to another woman. My dad, William, was a horny little thing and produced a few more babies while he was separated from his wife. His wife never left. My mom still loves him and never utters a bad word against him. And his children outside his marriage adore him because we really don't see him. And since everybody else likes him, especially my mom, I never thought twice about things. Sometimes we all get together for Fourth of July picnics in my Aunt Lauryn's back yard in Queens--myself, him, his wife, and nine kids from his wife and three different women, including my mom. We all accepted that "a man is a man" and there was no time to harbor hard feelings.
Chaka's show is about to start again. As always she looks overwhelmed by her wild hair, but still fiery and sensual. Sitting back I adore Chaka's short, olive green chiffon dress that adorns her voluptuous figure. My mom and I sit quietly humming while Chaka sings "Through the Fire" and sway our heads to the beat, along with practically everyone in the audience. Another twenty minutes later and the show's over. Another sold-out performance. Now, true, I'm a little late into the game and don't know the same Chaka my mom knows, but good music is good music. Whether it's pop, rock, rap, reggae, world, or merengue, I listen to it all!
Though I love hanging with my mom, things can get a little overbearing at times. When she starts preaching, it's time to start leaving. That "a man is a man" talk always irritated me. We stand at the corner of Sixth Avenue and West Third to hail a cab. My mom waits on the sidewalk, against the periodic bursts of wind,while I try to stop a cab. It's loud, crowded, and every cab that is passing is "off duty" or full. Damn! I hate this city ... .
"Baby, let me call Oliver, maybe he can pick us up," my mom says, waving me back in her direction.
Oliver is her "companion," both in their fifties and have been together for a few months. Oliver likes my mom because she always makes him feel like her rescuer and that is not my style. Just as I was about to turn back, a cab skidded to a stop right by my feet.
I bent over and asked "Seventy-second and Columbus?" He signaled for us to get in and my mom ran up to the cab in small, girlie steps. "This cab is filthy I should have sat on a napkin or something," she says in disgust, holding her legs tight and close together. I sit back, spread out, and enjoy the ride.
"Baby, so tell me." My mom wipes a lock of hair from her face and moves closer. Here she goes with her little whispers again. "If you don't have a man, how do you get those special needs met? At your age you should at least have someone nice giving you some loving when you need it." She actually looks genuinely concerned.
Smiling reminiscently she continues, "Your mother has hung her coat up from her wild days. So my stories are old. And I know a beautiful girl like you has plenty. Now spill the beans because I know you got a potful!" she says, playfully nudging me.
My mom in her prime was basically a tramp! She'll tell you in a minute, too. Maybe that explains why she was so strict with me when I was in school. Now as a secretary in a law firm, she goesto work in her clothes from Henri Bendel, her designer hats, and her nose in the air. But she didn't get the nickname "Sapphire," after the beautiful stone, for just sitting at home. In the attic of our previous home, she kept a yellow shoe box full of photos of her and her friends in the '70s and '80s. Ms. High Society was posing with red leather minis, tight, coochie-cutter shorts, and revealing tops that poured out the ample breasts that I had inherited with gratefulness.
"Well, I have a friend who comes by on those cold nights. He's not too bright, a regular guy, lives with his mom, doesn't have much, but he makes up for all that with his size, tongue, and stamina." Unlike most of my friends, now that I am grown, my mom and I can kick back and talk about dick size and everything. She would eagerly listen because hearing my stories was like reliving her wild days all over again.
"You need those types around every now and then. Just use protection because we don't want you being nobody's baby mama. Oh, Lord, no!" she says, holding her forehead.
"I keep condoms everywhere in the house. I don't play that baby mama thing. Not cute at all. If he was a professional basketball player ..." We burst out laughing, both knowing that I am too paranoid about protection to get knocked up by anyone--rich or poor.
The cab swings around Sixtieth Street and we hit some steep traffic. We may have caught up with those folks coming back to the city after the weekend. I look out the window, turn to my mom freshening her bright red lipstick. I guess Oliver is home waitingfor her. She has a natural beauty and needs very little makeup. Her smooth hair and skin always glisten and nicely frames her petite, but shapely body.
"These are the things we should discuss more often. Since you moved out, I feel we don't bond as we used to."
"I'm not trying to be rude, but my business is my business; and some things I like to keep private. When I was younger and in college, it didn't matter. I even followed some of your tips." My mom looks on with pride with that last one.
"But I like keeping some details to myself now," I say calmly, lightly touching her knee. I didn't want her to take it the wrong way because she had always lent an ear to me.
"I know. I was a little loose in my day. And I can see you have a little devil in you. Just knowing things sometimes just assures me that everything is okay. There are so many diseases out there now. When I was your age ..."
"Okay, I understand what you're saying. And Mommy, no news is good news," I say reassuringly.
We remain in our own thoughts as we ride down Broadway to Seventy-second Street. It's warm, but the wind is making its own stand against the sun, making the day feel like it's 68° rather than 80°.
As we approach my mom's twenty-story building she says, "That congressmen we were talking about." She tilts her head with a sarcastic grin. "I know something happened when you two met. I know." Shaking her head, she continues, "You can give me the details next time."
How does she know these things? Before I could even respond, she opened the cab door to leave.
I look out the window while the cab is slowly driving away and say jokingly, "Next time we'll talk over pound cake and milk!" With a wave and a smile, she disappears behind the double glass door.
On the way to Brooklyn, the gentle whipping of my hair against my face put me in deep relaxation. I took a nap and dreamed of a tree and long blades of grass that turned into people. It's one of those meaningless dreams you get during brief naps. Just when the tree was about to start doing the macerena, I hear the cabdriver, with one of the largest moles I've ever seen on his lip say, "Hey! It's thirty dollars! Hello!"
I take away a dollar less for the tip because of his attitude. Running my fingers through my hair, I stumble to the front door. My mom