Unconditionally Single by Mary B. Morrison Page A

her ass detoured, he’d disappear. Women had to learn, “Say what you mean and mean what you say.” Women needed to save their tears for worthy causes. Men on earth did not have the patience of Job. Men initiated pursuit but they really wanted to be pursued, wanted women to pick up their slack on building a solid relationship while they scoured for new pussy. Women wanted men to pursue them. Women feared being judged as easy or sleazy so they’d hold out a second too long and let a good man get away. That would send him into the arms of someone else.
    Was Santonio in the arms of someone else? When was he going to call me? I may have been a bit anxious but I wasn’t in denial.
    Honey wasn’t fooling anyone except herself. She not only wanted Grant, she loved and needed him in her life. My job as her friend was to honor what she wanted and never tell her my truth. I’d fucked her man. She probably knew or had sensed the sexual tension, but I was over Grant. Every pussy battle wasn’t worth the fight, especially if a woman won the war but lost her man.
    Exiting the freeway, my ring tone played, “Can’t be gettin’ mad! What you mad? Can’t handle that!…” A 212 area code appeared. I started to let the unrecognized number go to voice mail but then decided to answer. “Hello?”
    “Hey, beautiful. How are you?” he said.
    “You must have the wrong number,” I said. Who’d call me beautiful?
    “It’s Santonio Ferrari. Maybe my greeting was too personal for my first time calling but you are beautiful.”
    I blushed. This man was off to a good start. “It’s okay. Good hearing from you.”
    “I have a meeting in a few minutes so I can’t talk for long. But are you available for dinner tomorrow night?”
    I had so many questions for Santonio. “I’ll make time,” I said. Feeling like an infatuated teenager, I smiled.
    “Great, I’ll call you when I get to Atlanta. I can feel your smile. Bye, beautiful.”
    The detective in me wondered if he’d called me beautiful because he’d forgotten my name, didn’t want to call me the wrong name, or if he referred to all women as beautiful. I added his 212 number in my phone to the 704 area code I’d programmed from his business card.
    Parking in the lot, I entered the fast food restaurant looking for Honey. I was happy to find her but wasn’t prepared to see the woman I’d given fifty million to looking nearly homeless. Honey was seated at a table in the back corner of the restaurant. Clothes dirty. Hair slightly tangled. I sat in the booth beside her, noticed a small cut under her chin.
    “My God, what did they do to you?” I hugged her, held her.
    She cried in my arms like a baby. Other than myself, Honey was the strongest woman I knew. I sympathized with her. This was the side of a strong woman that men seldom saw. We bled. We hurt. We cried. We broke down. We did things we weren’t proud of but more importantly, we survived the best way we knew how. We picked ourselves up, brushed ourselves off, and kept going.
    Unable to speak, Honey swallowed her words.
    “Let’s get you out of here, my friend.” I let her lean on me until we got to the car.
    I helped Honey into my SUV rental, then I got in, started the engine, and drove toward Interstate 75, merged north. “I’ma make a quick stop at my favorite restaurant off the Chattahoochee River and order us seafood to go. I’m starved.” A drive-through would’ve been more convenient but whenever possible I ate the best of everything.
    “I hate this shit!” Honey yelled, throwing something out the window.
    “Honey,” I softly said. “What was that?”
    “My gun.” She cried. “Some creep named Ken Draper,” Honey said, wiping her nose with her palm. “I shot him. I hope that bastard dies. I mean…” Her words trailed off as she twirled the tip of her hair around her finger.
    “Honey,” I said, “did you kill him?”
    She snapped. Her head whipped in my direction. “I just shot the