Take Her Man. Grace Octavia
black dress that would do Halle Berry proud. He was intoxicated by the time Tasha took the picture of us standing by the bar, so his face was a little red. “Smile for our picture, Mrs. Julian James,” he whispered to me. Needless to say, that got my juices flowing and my ass is grinning from ear to ear in the picture, looking like I’d just won an Academy Award.
I shook my head and slipped the picture back into my purse. “I can’t believe this shit,” I said aloud. For one second I thought of turning the car back on and heading over to Julian’s place to talk about things. Then my phone rang. It was Tasha again.
“Get out of the damn car and walk into the restaurant,” she said. “You can’t turn back now.” The phone went dead. It was a 3T intervention. Tasha was right. I had to get moving. Talking to Julian would only make things worse and I was not about to play myself. Walking toward the restaurant, I took a self assuring deep breath and looked down at the sexy copper colored halter dress I decided to wear. I didn’t pick it because it looked more than fantastic on me—although it did. I chose it because the tight, yet forgiving fabric wrapped around me like a second layer of skin—a tougher, thicker layer I needed to make it through the evening. It was the perfect choice for the less than perfect occasion. It certainly didn’t look like a breakup party dress. It looked like a birthday party dress, and the way I saw it, if I was going to celebrate my new birth as a single woman, I may as well look good doing it.
It’s Ladies Night…But I’m Not All Right
I could see those two crazy chicks waiting for me toward the back of the restaurant as soon as I walked in. I wanted to walk right over to them before Tamia guzzled down the last of the champagne, but, in perfect “walk of fame” tradition, I had to pretend not to see them. This was all part of the game we used to attract attention from guys standing around by the bar. We believe that men like it when a woman looks lost and alone. It gives the guys a reason to talk to the woman without fear of looking obvious and being obviously rejected. No, they prefer to look concerned and helpful, so they say silly stuff like, “You look lost, sweetie. Can I help you?” or “You came here all alone?” It never fails. So sisters who claim they can’t meet a decent brother simply need to stop sitting and socializing with the group and look a little more single.
I looked down to make sure my tatas hadn’t somehow found their way to freedom out of the top of the halter dress I’d forced them into, and then I made my way to the bar. I strutted slowly and deliberately, pretending to search for my lost friends. I scanned the faces of each female I saw.
“You looking for someone, sweetheart?” a bald cutie asked as I struggled not to laugh at how ridiculous this entire tradition was—but, then, I guess that was the point, because I was laughing and, therefore, not crying anymore.
“Yeah, I’m looking for my girls,” I said, looking him up and down and silently comparing every inch of his body to Julian’s. I hated doing it, but a long time ago I realized that the whole “compare the next to the ex” thing was just a part of the breaking-up process.
“There she is,” I heard rowdy-ass Tasha yell from the other side of the room. “There’s that fine-ass movie star who’s my friend.” Tasha and Tamia began to clap. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the restaurant lifted their heads and looked at me. All I could offer was a weak wave to all of these celebrity gazers who’d obviously flocked to Justin’s in hopes of seeing someone of more fame.
“There they go,” I said to old Baldy. I walked to the table with all eyes on me. “Y’all are so crazy,” I said, quickly squeezing into a seat next to Tamia.
“Don’t act, because you were worse when I broke up with Corey before Christmas,” Tamia teased, handing me a bouquet of roses—another tradition. Tasha nodded her head in agreement.
“So…” Tasha looked down at my hands.
“So?” I said, playing dumb. I knew what that trick wanted, but I wasn’t offering it up that easy.
“Hand it over,” she said, putting out her hand.
“What?”
“She’s right, Troy. Hand it over,” Tamia chimed in. I looked away from them. “Was I this bad with Corey?” Tamia asked Tasha.
“No, girl. Ms. Troy Lovesong over here is just wrong. She’s breaking all of the rules. But she’d better act right before I have to cut her.” Tasha reached for a butter knife that was sitting on the table beside her.
“Whatever,” I said. I threw my purse on the table and sat back in my seat. I watched as Tamia pulled the bag open like a lion looking for fresh meat. I thought I saw saliva dripping from the sides of her mouth, her fingernails growing longer, vampire-like teeth hanging down like fangs. She snatched the picture of Julian and me out and grinned ghoulishly.
“Hahahahahaha,” she laughed like an evil witch. “You have the tools?”
“You know I came prepared, Ms. Lovebird.” Tasha pulled two menacing pairs of scissors from her purse. Tasha took the breakup parties more seriously than any of us—perhaps that was because before she got married, she had the most breakups of any other 3T. Over the years, she’d become the unofficial breakup party organizer. She made sure you got there and had a good time. It made her a pretty annoying person when all you wanted to do was stay at home and cry over the lost lover, but at the end of the day hearing her voice harassing you to get up and out was promising. And she actually made the parties pretty good.
“Ready?” Tamia asked like we were preparing for a race.
“Ready,” I replied, afraid of what was coming.
“Ready!” Tasha said, handing Tamia one of the pairs of scissors.
“Rock-a-bye, baby,” Tamia said. I rolled my eyes and swallowed the shot of Patrón that was waiting for me on the table. I tried not to watch the massacre, but, well, it was hard with all of the confetti floating in the air in front of me. Tasha, who had more male horror stories tucked away in her skeleton closet than anyone I knew, had a way with scissors. I once saw her cut up an 8x10 of her own ex in 3.2 seconds. She snatched it, saying Tamia and I were moving too slow. That girl was a serial killer in her last life.
“Mazel tov!” Tasha said, slamming the scissors on the table. I looked down to see the damage. All I could make out was a piece of Julian’s silver tie. It was over. I could feel tears coming to my eyes.
“It’s because we love you, Ms. Lovesong,” Tamia said, handing me the cutout of my face.
“Yeah, and we hate that fool!” Tasha added. “Now let’s have a round of City Girls and talk about our dearly departed like the dog he is.” The waiter handed each of us a City Girl—the over-sweetened version of the Sex and the City Cosmopolitan that we drank at most of our get-togethers. The tasty mix had just enough kick to get the tears rolling early on in the night and the feet moving on the dance floor later.
“Take your time, T. We have all night,” Tamia said, patting me on the back. “Tonight is about you. It’s your party. But you have to talk about it. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
Along with being the smartest person I know, Tamia is the most rational. She was raised by her father, a judge who retired when Tamia’s mother died so he could spend time with Tamia. Tamia said he was a good man, but his love for the courtroom never left him. He taught Tamia the basics of his favorite cases when she was just in elementary school and convinced her that she would be the first black female Supreme Court justice. This resulted in Tamia being just that…“just.” She followed the law to a T—returned library books on time, never parked in handicapped spots, and at most times in my life, she stood as my voice of justice and reason—when she wasn’t locked in the library until daylight.
“Thanks,” I said, folding what was left of my relationship with Julian into a napkin. Tasha raised her glass.
“A toast to my fly-ass friend and the motherfucker who will never know it,” she laughed. “I’m for real. No sense crying over spilled, spoiled milk…especially