“My son’s with his mother.”
You give a man everything. All of you. Out on a table. Everything. Appetizers. Sides. Drinks. An entrée. And dessert. Just everything you have to give.
For this, you ask for something. A small thing.
You get nothing.
I was tired of getting nothing. Nothing from every man. I’d bend like this. I’d turn like that. They’d notice and smile. Follow me for a little while. And then, I was alone again. Back and broken. Worse off than I was before. Poor. And Black. And a woman. And I don’t need to have gone to college to know that shit ain’t fair.
So, you’re damn right, when I met Jamison I was tired of getting nothing. But I gave him everything anyway. I wore high leopard-print heels and shit. I dusted my nipple in Ecstasy. I fried chicken in my thong in the middle of the night. Whatever he wanted. He noticed. He smiled.
Then I asked for something.
He got real quiet. That man-not-answering-the-phone-or-e-mail quiet.
That’s when I realized I wasn’t being left with nothing this time. I was taking what I wanted.
It’s funny what a man will do to keep what he has. When I told Jamison I was pregnant, his first question was how far along I was. I knew what this meant. I lied. fifteen weeks. He told me to take his credit card and pick out an engagement ring. He had to marry me to keep everything he has. And that’s no trouble for me. I wanted to marry him because of everything he has. Because now I have it, too.