Page 11 of Zimyra

“True.”

“I suppose she’s waiting for me to fill out this four-page application now.”

“Here’s an idea—why don’t you get your assistant to do it? Darla will have no issues completing that for you, and while she’s at it, she can type you up a fake resumé as well.”

“Nah. I have to do this myself. If I don’t, I’m not sure Zimyra is going to give me the job.”

“Or, you could just do something bold.”

“Like what?”

“Like go there and start working without her permission. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um—I don’t know…maybe she calls the cops on me for trespassing!”

“Yeah…that is a possibility, huh?”

“You know what, Peter—let me handle this my way. I assure you I can handle this little lady with ease.”

“If you say so.”

The waitress brings my food. It smells amazing – a blend of ramen with sliced boiled eggs, broccoli, onions and sausage. I’ve had ramen before, but not like this. I’m so hungry, I could eat just about anything right now.

“Ah’ight, Peter. I’m going to get into this meal before it gets cold. I’ll check in with you later.

“Sure. Later.”

As soon as I end the call, I dive in and the flavors take me into another universe. I’m immediately thankful that this place is so close. I’ve never been much of a cook. I’ll be a regular here for sure.

I leave shortlyafter smashing the food and return to my unit on the top floor – floor twenty. It’s a nice pad with an expansive kitchen, living room and dining room. The windows are all naked. They’re tinted, but with the lights on, you could probably see inside. This high up, who would? Even if I was walking around nude, I wouldn’t care. Whoever was watching would be the lucky one to see a body this ripped.

The lighting in this place is fancy. The chandelier over the dining room table looks like a masterpiece. The appliances in the kitchen are all stainless steel. I knew I would love this place once I saw the black sectional sofa and the seventy-inch flat screen on the wall. Ahead of my visit, I arranged for these things to be put in place. Instead of packing clothes, I ordered a new Southern wardrobe so I could fit right in with a blue-collar worker lifestyle. Back home, I have a personal chef, a walk-in closet, a personal tailor, housekeeping and all. My home is immaculate and expansive, but this place will have to do for a few months. It’s laid out like a bachelor pad – fitting for me because that’s who I am – a bachelor – always have been, always will be. There’s no room in the trajectory of my life for love, a woman, kids, none of that. I was put on this earth to make money moves, and I’m so freakin’ good at it. Why would I need anything more than that?

Women? They come a dime a dozen. And I’ve never met one who could hold my attention long enough to be slightly interested in anything longer than a briefinteraction. My boys and acquaintances have girlfriends and wives, but I’ll pass on the drama and heartache. The things they tell me alone are enough to keep me a bachelor for life.

Sometimes they look like they wished they had stayed single. Some look blissfully in love. Whatever the case, they can keep it. I’m good with entertaining a woman for a short time – not a long time.

After a quick shower, I sit at a desk facing the few other towers in this area and stare off into the darkness. I don’t want to sit here and do something so menial like fill out an application, but this woman has requirements, so…

I click open a pen and begin. Here goes nothing.

CHAPTER 3

“I thought you were goingto wait until I got here before you started cooking, Ma,” I say as I step into the kitchen at my mother’s house.

“Girl, do you know how long it takes for collard greens to cook? I had to put them on already.”

“Okay, then I’ll get started on the macaroni.”

I go to the sink and wash my hands, then dry them off on a towel near the sink. Cooking with my mother is one of the things I’ve enjoyed doing since I was a child. She made it a point to show me how to cook – said I wasn’t going to get a man making boiled hotdogs and fried bologna. Like a man can’t learn how to cook for his woman…

And a fried bologna sandwich ain’t never hurt nobody, but that’s another topic for another day.

I believe it’s tradition for all Southern mothers to show their daughters how to cook and do all the home economic stuff. I love doing those things. It keeps me humble, grounded and feminine. I’m happy that I know how to cook so I don’t have to live off the fattening American diet. I typically avoid fast foods, and if I’m craving something, I just figure out how to make a healthy version of it. But this bacon mac and cheese – well, there ain’t no shortcut for this. It’s cheesy, bacon goodness, and it is what it is. I won’t sidestep this dish for no healthy alternative. That’s just—well—WRONG.

“What else are you making, Myra?” Mom asks as she stirs the greens.

“Honey cornbread and I marinated some lamb chops last night. They’re in that glass bowl over there. I’m going to sear them before they go in the oven. By the way, did you bake some chicken?”

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