Page 6 of One Hotlanta Night
With my woman.
I know this down deep in my soul. This premonition comes through in dreams, when I pray, and even when I space out at my desk. Fleeting visions of whatshelooks like, the one my heart yearns for. I don’t know her exact features; it’s like seeing a reflection in water. Or a hint of perfume that washes over you in a crowd.
But I’m confident that when I see her, I’ll know it.
With a huff, I push myself away from the counter and strap my boxing gloves on. Might as well take some of my frustration out on the bag. The freestanding punching bag has probably been my best purchase since moving in, even if I have to keep it pushed in the corner of my tiny dinette. At least it’ll take the edge off.
I debate loading a CD to play in the background, just so it doesn't feel so empty in here. But neither DMX nor Foo Fightersis gonna cut it today. The FF one is scratched all to hell from the number of times I've played it anyway.
I'd rather just deal with the sounds of my fists hitting the leather. It matches my mood.
As I pound away at the bag, alternating right hooks and uppercuts, I wonder what the woman of my dreams is doing right now. It has been a year since I relocated, and she hasn’t shown up yet. Maybe I need to get out more. I can’t expect her to just walk right up and take my hand, right?
Man, the loneliness is really getting to me today. Maybe Ishouldcall Adam, get some time in with the guys. It’d beat hanging around these four walls listening to my punches echo through the room. And if they want to party after, it’s not like I’ll be tempted to do anything I don’t want to do. I’m willing to wait for my woman to show.
Adam’s buddies say that I shouldn’t be so picky. Funny, because based on what I’ve seen, they’re not picky enough. If you’re going to take the time to go to bed with someone, explore them with your body, give them a little window of insight into your heart and soul…shouldn'tyou be picky? I tell them I'm selective when it comes to the girls I take home. If I can't engage wholeheartedly, then it just cheapens the experience. I’d rather go without than settle for anything less. And that’s what they don’t understand.
I’m not willing to compromise on a quick lay that’s half-hearted. Not when the real deal is out there.
I can be patient. Iwillbe patient.
Even though it sucks.
Loyalty, strength, honor: these are the values that my grandfather taught me. He didn’t have to say it for me to know I should put those needs ahead of my own dick. So if that means that I’m “too picky”, then so be it. It doesn’t bother me.
I've felt something for all of the girls that I've been with—and they’ve left more than satisfied—but none of them have been theone. Even as a teenager I recognized that. And as soon as I realized those relationships weren’t going to last, I ended it. What was the point?
Yeah, I’ve done things in my past I’m not proud of, but who hasn’t? I’m ready now. I’m ready for my person.
I don’t think I’m asking for too much. A lot of the girls I’ve met are focused on material things: shoes, clothes, vacations. I get that. I’ve worked hard for what I’ve got. But I want someone who is okay with doing the everyday mundane shit too.
Things like going to the farmer’s market to make five-star, home-cooked meals enjoyed over candlelight. Lively conversations with someone whose mind enchants me along with her body. Someone that I can chase around the house while we clean on Saturday mornings and wrap my arms around Saturday nights. Watching movies and laughing before we go to our bedroom while I make her scream my name over and over again…
The home phone rings, and I quickly unstrap one glove to pick up the receiver from the wall.
“Miguel!” my mother shouts before I can even say a word.
“Hola, Mami,” I say, setting the gloves on the kitchen counter before sliding down the wall to rest my back against it. Just hearing her voice gives me comfort, soothing my frustration. Only my immediate family calls me Miguel; my dad’s German side sticks with the traditional Michael Stromberg. And don’t get me started on nicknames.
“How are you doing today, Mijo?” she continues on in a high-lilting tone. I hear the energy in her voice. Today is a good day. Heaven knows she deserves it. The levels of pain my mother feels on a daily basis varies sometimes hour to hour.
Fibromyalgia can be such a bitch. It’s taken away my mother’s ability to do most of the things she used to enjoy. I’m the only one who really remembers when Mom could still dance around the kitchen, making food for me and my friends and creating a home away from home for my crew.
Now, most days it’s a struggle for her to just get out of bed. I hate what this chronic illness has done to her. But the days when she feels well are almost magical, and I’m happy for her.
“I’m good, Mami,” I reply, the smile apparent in my voice.
“Are you coming home anytime soon?”
“You know I try to get up there every couple of weeks or so.”
“I know, but I wanted to see if you’ll come up next weekend.”
“And why is that?” Clearly she has something up her sleeve.
“There’s a new family that’s coming to our church,” she starts, and I sigh, my irritation returning. I can already tell where this conversation is headed.
“Mom, I’m not driving to Charlotte to meet some girl so you can set me up with her.”
