Page 17 of Isn't She Lucky
“Who are you texting?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She flashes devious eyes my way, then continues typing.
I roll my eyes. “Diedra, put the phone down so you can tell me about your date.”
She thumbs a final message, then places her phone on the table. She says, “Okay, so guuurl,” she pops her lips like she’s got something juicy to tell me.
“What? Tell me.”
“Okay, so the man was foine, okay! I mean, I sat right there and stared into his smooth, dark chocolate face all evening. The conversation was fire. We vibed. Girl, it was everything. Oh, and get this—he even paid for the meal. I ain’t have to pull out my wallet for nothing.”
“That’s good,” I say, fisting a handful of popcorn and cramming it into my mouth. “Are you going to see him again or—?”
“Yep. We’re going out next weekend.”
“What’s his name?”
“Wade Jeffries. He’s forty years young.”
Ack!
I choke on popcorn. Coughing to clear my passageways, I say, “He’s forty?”
“Forty yearsyoung,” she repeats and smiles like she’s reminiscing on their dinner date.
“Okay, stop saying that. Forty ain’t old, but it ain’tyoungeither. Be real. That man is midlife. You’re in your twenties.”
“So.”
“So, run! Run right now, and don’t look back.”
“Why?”
“Diedra, do you know how much life that man done lived at forty? You’re twenty-nine. You already got a daddy.”
“Talk all you want, but there’s nothing wrong with an older man. They’re mature, seasoned, nurturing, and I can tell he’s all those things. I’m finna be one of those soft-life wives who lie out by the pool all day while getting my feet rubbed.”
I laugh at her foolishness and say, “I don’t see that for you. In my humble opinion, I feel like you need to be with someone you can grow and build with—not somebody who has already experienced life and can’t experience anything new with you.”
“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t think that will be enough to change my mind. I like him and I want to see where it goes.”
I pour uslemonade and take a sip of mine right away.
“Whew! I made that strong.”
Diedra drinks some. Her face scrunches, and she pulls her collar out and looks down her shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Trying to see if there’s hair on my chest after drinking this so-called lemonade. Girl, this is straight vodka.”
Amused, I say, “No, it’s not. Perhaps I poured a little too much in.”
“Ya think?”
“After the dinner I had, I probably knew I needed it.”
“What happened?”
