I grab my cell and switch from right ear to left. I pick up my remote from my green and white striped canopy and press power. Green grass fills the screen. Little men stand still, measuring the distance from the desired holes to their balls.
“I had Sprint for a while but now I have Verizon…” He continues.
A short, tan Asian man appears. The camera zooms and the announcer’s voice heightens like a little boy who has just seen his first pepa™. He introduces the reason for this sudden vocal infliction…Tiger Woods. I inch forward, closer to the screen. I’m focused. Titillated. Intrigued by…golf.
There goes Tiger. Swing! Man, that ball is flying down that grassy knoll.
I wonder what else Tiger can swing that hard.
“Sujeiry, are you there?” The crowd claps and I snap back to my reality.
“Yeah, of course.”
“So, are you?”
“Ah, well, I don’t know yet.” And I don’t know. I have no idea what Elijah is talking about. I search my memory, seeking any nouns mentioned other than “Verizon”, “Blackberry Storm”, “GPS system”. Searching for anything Elijah has said of interest in this thirty-minute-too-long conversation. My ex-boyfriend from three years ago who I loved, who is back in my life is…snoozapalooza. Did he get this boring with time or am I just more fun.
“The picture, Sujeiry. You promised you’d send me a sexy MSM pic of you and you haven’t,” Elijah sputters quickly. His edgy voice rising as if he’d just seen his first pepa™, and the pepa™was a pene in disguise.
“I told you I would when I felt like it.” I place extra, bitchified emphasis on “felt” and then release it from the rest of my statement.
“What’s the big deal?” Elijah’s edge escalates, becomes a little icier. It is in complete contrast to the announcers’ voice which is now whoopy-ing Tigers hole-in-one.
“We said we would go slow, right? Start from scratch? Well, I don’t send sexy pictures of myself when I am getting to know someone. I’m not that kind of girl,” I reply teasingly. I turn off the television. I pull my laptop from my bed and place it on my lap. Get on AIM to chat with some buddies. Anything to distract myself from this tormenting snoozefest.
“Listen, I have to go. I have a customer. But I want that picture. I’ll talk to you later, babe.” Elijah hurries off the phone and leaves me with a dial tone and two critical questions. What am I doing with Mr. Snooze? And who does he think he is, demanding shit from me?
I bite my lower lip, contemplating my dilemma. I click open the saved folders icon on my Blackberry Curves home screen. Scrolling down and opening, I review Elijah and I’s text message exchange from the past three weeks. I yawn as I skim through them. Even his text messages are putting me to sleep. So what am I doing?
I throw my cell atop my full-sized, orthopedic mattress. It jumps once and lands safely. I sign off AIM and remove the laptop from my lap. Bored again, I flick on the television. Tiger is still wowing the crowd with his incredible swing, posture and discipline. Golf is extremely dull to most. I don’t know anyone who watches or plays golf other than middle aged, white men with country club memberships. But everyone is excited by Tiger Woods. What does he have that others lack? Chispa. Charisma. A twinkle in his chinito eyes. All things Elijah lacks. Sure Elijah has a spark, but the concerning kind. The kind that ignites and explodes suddenly without a match in close enough proximity. So what am I doing?
I glance at my clock. 1pm on a Saturday – definitely time for a shower. I shrug on my velvet, gray robe, swipe my cell phone from the top of my bed, and drop it in my robes big, front pocket. I walk down my apartment’s long hallway, turn left and get into the tub. Turn water on and it flows down my face, my hair, my back. My straightened hair automatically twists into loose spirals. The top of my hair sticks to my scalp while the ends hang loose.
Soon, I clean my hands, water still running, and open my medicine cabinet. My cherry red lipstick sits here, ready for my pout. I apply it and check my pucker in the mirror along with my wet, glistening skin and damp hair. Steam fills the air. It’s like I’m the star of a sexified photo shoot. And then I do it. I grab my cell phone, pose against the plastic shower curtain, and click. I save it and contemplate sending it to Elijah. But I don’t. Instead, I dry up, walk back down my apartment’s long hallway, and plop on my bed. I turn to Tiger again. I measure the distance between my desperate need to be loved and my true feelings for Elijah. I sit there. Confused. Pensive. Intrigued by…me.