Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“She’s independent. Many friends from college and work. Loves her job. But she’s lonely. I know it. I know my child. My baby. You have a good job. She say you have a nice home. You’re handsome and very strong. She says to me, ‘He’s not married and has no children.’ You’re too old to not have a wife. Why you not have a wife? What’s wrong with you?”
He snatched his napkin from his shirt and dabbed at the sides of his mouth, then tossed it onto the table.
“I’m divorced.”
“Hmph. My Poet would make a good wife for the right man. What you gonna do about it?” She crossed her legs and arms, feeling a flood of irritation coming.
“Well, I made a move. She shot me down, but like I said: don’t worry about being a matchmaker because I ain’t done with her. Not by a long shot.” He paused, took a sip of his drink, then continued. “I’ve got some ideas.”
“Good. Poet is a good girl, a good catch, but she’s headstrong and stubborn.” She shook her head.
The tall man slowed his chewing, and leaned in.
“I’ve been accused on occasion of bein’ stubborn, too. I ’spose she and I may have that in common. So, tell me more about Poet.”
She got up and poured herself a small glass of soda, then sat back down across from him.
“Poet’s mother passed away.”
He nodded like he knew that already. Perhaps Poet had clued him in? Not something she usually did. She tucked that thought into her back pocket and saved it for later. “Her mama was my best friend. Dominique died when Poet was four and a half. Her father across the world, in the navy. She tried to call him, but the old number he’d given her was out of service. She had no idea where he was. He not know she was pregnant. She found out after he’d left for active duty. Short relationship, but my friend wanted a baby. She got pregnant on purpose.” She looked down into her lap. “Wanted Poet. She was a nurse in the NICU ward. We met in nursing school.
“Had gotten divorced for the second time, felt like life wasn’t fair. Wanted a baby, badly.” She smiled sadly, recalling it all. “Neither ex-husband wanted children. First husband had a bunch of children from other women. Second husband could not have any. She was such a good mommy. Then, Dom got sick. Pass away.” Her heart fluttered and her voice clogged her throat. Tight and uncomfortable. The grief never got easier. She’d just learned to cope with it. “Me and my husband raised Poet. I told Poet her father’s name. Help her look. No luck.” She tossed up her hands. “Then, when Poet do DNA test thing, online stuff, find him, but he died long ago.” Her heart beat a little faster as she recalled the disappointment in Poet’s eyes that time.
“Does Poet have any siblings? I’m an only child, myself. She said she was, too, but maybe she has half siblings somewhere, yet no relationship with them?”
“She have no brothers and sisters on that online stuff, but lookin’ into cousins. She’s frustrated.” She sighed. “Sometimes family is more disappointing than the fantasy we have of them.” She scoffed, feeling her baby’s pain.
“Ohhh, don’t I know it.” He laughed miserably. “All too well.”
“You ever married?”
“Yes, ma’am. A long time ago. Told you I was divorced.”
She didn’t remember him saying that. She ran hot with embarrassment. It was happening again. Seemingly sensing her discomfort, he ran his hand over her fingers.
“It’s alright. I’ll repeat things no matter how many times you need to hear them. It don’t bother me none.” His lips curled in a soft smile. She thanked him, on the inside. “What about Poet? Has she ever been married?”
“She was engaged a few years ago. I didn’t like him.”
“Why not?”
“Not good enough for her. No confidence. Just pretend confidence. I saw through him. No hard work. Lazy.” She waved her hand. “Opposite of you… He make her try and choose her job or him. He was jealous. She chose job, cut off engagement. She’s busy. All the time. Work work work. Distracts herself. The farm. Me. Her job is important to her, but she never spend time with herself. Not long enough, anyway. She needs love. She tells me havin’ a boyfriend is not a priority, but she’d like one. I don’t believe her. I think it is a priority. Good love is what she needs. Like food for the heart. She need someone to—”
“—make her feel safe. Make her feel it’s okay to be who she is, just as she is. Help her relax and unwind, without even havin’ to try.”
“…Yes. That’s right.”
“Ms. Aunt Huni, I—”
“Why you keep saying, ‘Ms. Aunt Huni’, instead of Aunt Huni?”