Yippee! I finally have had 100 visitors! I remember when I had three. I was so excited. I couldn't believe anyone wanted to read about my life. But then again as nosy as I am, surewly their are others as nosy as me. I am very nosy.
I'm sitting here watching Good Morning America, drinking coffee, contemplating my next move. I have been so busy lately.I fell asleep on the Miami Dallas game last night, right at half-time. I was soooo tired. If I had known that they were going to win the Championship I would have forced my eyes open. For my 100th visitor celebration I am going to post another excerpt of the book for everyone to read.
This is Page- thirty-something ex-pagent girl, friend to Essence, Kyra and Jakie.

Even his breath smells good.

We approach a white limo spread over four parking spaces, under a glowing moon in the midnight sky.
"So what's on the agenda?" I lace and unlace my fingers—lace and un-lace, lace and un-lace. I swallow, but the intense nicotine craving lodges itself in my airways. I can tell he doesn't smoke. Doesn't have any of the characteristics; fingernails are clear.
I'm not gonna smoke either; I'll wait until the end of the date. It won't be that bad.
"Oh I don't know. I thought we'd swing by some friends of mine, if that's okay?"
"That's fine." I hope I can wait.
As withdrawal claws at the base of my lungs, the limo turns into the medical district, the trendy part of town. Swank cocktail lounges, daiquiri bars and boutique shops line the narrow streets in tight brick bunches. The faded bricks look to the neon signs for exposure, while the neon signs lure in customers with their fluorescent smiles. Weirdoes, lie snugly between the bricks like cement, draped in newspapers or tucked under worn cardboard boxes.
We stop in front of a building nestled in the shadows of Becham Street. The remaining beige paint on the building crawls toward the sidewalk. All but a few lights are off, and they look orange through the lifeless window panes.
“Are we here?” I hope not.
“This is it,” he does that thing where his lip curls up.

Locks and afros ranging small to out-of-this-world and from black to apple red or platinum blonde float through the room like the air itself. Slim black-frame eyeglasses. Plastic arm bracelets. Incense smoke sifts through the air, to the palpating of the bongo drums, carrying the sweet smell of sandalwood.
I wish someone in here was smoking a cigarette.

Everyone knows Talib, and he graciously introduces me.
I feel overdressed.
As we circulate through the crowd of friendly smiles and warm gestures, the bunion on my left toe decides, and fights for its place in my new shoe. Every step I take it pushes the virgin leather and the leather pushes back.
Talib stops at an ottoman near the wall where he sits then pulls me between his legs. I squirm for the first few minutes, while appreciatively taking the pressure off of the burning pulsating in my shoe. I sit, back straight. He pulls me to him and his forehead taps the back of my head. I shift my body easing back to my stick position. He lays his chin on my collarbone and pulls my body back into his where the awkwardness melts into the laced air.
"Do you wanna take off your shoes?"
"What?"
"Your shoes. I felt you limping when we walked in. Do they hurt?"
"I'm fine, thank you." Limping? I can strut my stuff with the best of them. I've got hours of walking, dancing or whatever he wants to do, left in these shoes!

"Are you hungry?" He whispers.
"Aren't we going to dinner?"
"If you want, we can go to dinner."
"Dinner wasn't a part of the evening?" Most dates usually start with dinner.
"I really hadn't planned the evening. I thought we'd just play it by ear. Why get caught up in planning things? I just like to go as the day takes me. As far is dinner is concerned either you're hungry or you're not, no planning necessary."
I really need a smoke, and no one here is smoking.
"Yeah, let’s get something to eat." I funnel the tension through a sexy half-smile.

"What are you in the mood for?"
"I don't know." If name an expensive restaurant, he might think I'm a gold-digger.
"How about Wings -n- Things?"
"Um yeah," I stumble, "That sounds good," Wings-n-Things? That's strike one.
He looks deep into my eyes and very calmly says, "I was just kidding. How about Flora's, the new gourmet soul food restaurant down town?"
This nicotine-fit has declared war against my willpower. What will he think if I smoke just one cigarette?
I force, "Sounds terrific," through teeth clamped into a jagged smile.
I look out of the black windshield and count— one, two, three, four— the dim street lights, while drumming my fingertips on my knee— six, seven, eight, — he touches my arm, my muscles tighten—nine, ten, eleven....
"Page, is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine, just fine," another smile, “You know what? Could we just stop by the supermarket? I need to run in and get something?"
"Sure." He motions the driver to pull into the parking lot of a local grocery store.
"Thanks."
The wheels roll over the loose gravel. Their moan, as they re-situate, under the grooved rubber stabs at the tip of my nerves... They stop rolling, the gravel is still. I break.
"Wait Page, I'll come with..."
"No,” from over my shoulder, “No, that's okay. I've got it."
My ankles wobble over the un-even pavement but I maneuver through the two automatic doors in a poised shuffle to approach a walnut brown haired man with deep lines in his face who seems like he’s existing only in spurts behind the pharmacy counter.
His body has a subtle loose shaking, which probably runs a close second to my own body, in it’s shaking, as I gasp for the last oxygen on the planet, with a maniacal look on my face.
I tap my tangerine acrylic nails on the counter twice, "Nicotine patches?"
He shakes his head no, like a bobble head, but says, “What?"
"Nicotine patches!"
He unlocks a glass case containing several different varieties. Maybe his movements are involuntary.
"Do you want CQ, or EX?" Bobble, bobble, bobble.
"Which is the best one?"
"A lot of people buy CQ," bobble.
"How long before it takes effect?"
"Not sure," bobble, bobble...
“Gimme that one!" At this point, I don't need that much persuasion. I slide into the restroom with urgency, spinning around the first corner on the tips of my toes, then turn my heels in the same angle that little boys skid the back tires of bikes, while bringing them to a stop, and bringing me to a stop. Nobody can tell me I can't work a pair of high heels.
I slap two patches on my butt and throw the box in the trash on my way out. I hope there's enough meat back there to absorb the nicotine, I don't have any tail.
Outside Talib is leaning against the Limo trading stories with the chauffeur. Their laughter spreads in a deep rangy pitch, over the hood of the car. As I get closer his eyes, glazed with patience and sincerity, touch softly in my direction.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Yes, thank you," I say, waiting for the driver to open the door for us, but Talib opens our door instead.
I'll bet he's got his game face on.
"Alright man, take us over to Flora's."
"You two seem close; you've known each other long?"
"Naw, we just met. Pretty cool brotha. He's got his stuff together."
"Well it can't be too much together— he's a chauffeur," I flip my hair and look out the side window with the cigarette craving still tugging at my emotions.
"What's wrong with being a chauffeur? The man could be committing a crime. You see, I'm levelheaded; I don't like getting above myself. If you get too high up in the air, you can't see what's underneath you. And you can't fully have it all together, if you don't know what you're dealing with. And you can't know what you're dealing with if you can't see it coming."
"So what are you saying?"
"Get off your high horse."
"Oh," surprised at his directness, "Okay."
I sit back in the seat and press any further words between my lips. No one's ever said that to me, well Jakie says it all the time, but I don't pay that woman any mind.
———
The restaurant is really classy, rich rust-orange walls with that ragging technique everyone is doing. The tables are intimate black shiny circles that flow as even as polka-dots from wall-to-wall. Its dimness and the trickling waterfall create an ambiance.
"This is nice. I've never been here before. You?" I don't know, guess when I think Black-owned, I think raggedy.
"I've been here a couple of times."

The hostess leads us to a remote area lush with tropical plants, and the best lighting I've ever seen. Talib has his hand on the small of my back and I tower over him walking strong and owning every step, establishing my presence.
"Did I tell you how amazing you look?"
I counter with a smile, wide and pretty.
"Oh look! They have a vegetarian menu. Smothered Southern Cakes. Wonder what that is?"
"It says it's texturized soy protein patties, smothered in onions, mushrooms and gravy."
"Sounds good."
"Whatever. I never understood why people simulate eating meat. Either you eat meat or you don't."
"You know that makes a lot of sense. I never thought about it that way." Even though where we just left, I didn't see slabs of beef going around.
Remember to sit pretty, Page, I hear my mother say, so I roll my shoulders back.

In the middle of dinner, I look up and notice him studying me. I feel his fiery eyes tracing the shape of my face and the outline of my lips, counting the eyelashes on my eyelids. He looks at my hands as if he were counting the creases on my fingers. I feel naked. Not in the sense that I'm not wearing any clothes, but naked in the sense that he can see me without the eight-hundred-dollar hair weave or my designer dress. I feel like I'm wearing sneakers and a T-shirt, (which, by the way, I don't even own a pair) and yet I feel comfortable.
"You have firm smooth skin."
"You think so?" I look down at the scar, still there from the burn I suffered from the curling iron, and try to stare it into non-existence. I wish he was looking at my other hand. There's nothing wrong with that one.
I meet his almond eyes over the table top. A long look at his creamy peanut butter complexion and those beautiful locks, and my stomach is full.
"So why did you bid on me?"
"I felt your energy." He takes my hand and draws it to his lips, grazing them softly. His full chocolate lips are smooth. I wonder what it must be like to kiss them, and if the women that have kissed them are anything like me.
A rumbling in my stomach pushes my thoughts to the side and take center stage. Nausea pushes its way up and my head feels as thin as the tissue that holds it together. Surely his presence doesn't make me feel nauseous? Maybe it was dinner? But I don't think I would be getting sick this soon.
I push the queasiness back, "So what do you look for in a woman?"
"I look for someone who has a good heart. I can get past almost any hang-ups people might have as long as they have a good heart. I don't like connivers. I try not to have them in my life."
"Yeah, I don't like conniving people either. For that reason, I don't really have that many new friends. The few friends I do have, I've had for nearly twenty years."
"What about you?" he asks, "What do you look for in a man?"
I want a rich man who can take care of me. "I want a man who is genuine and sincere. One who has an open mind. One who likes to have fun. One who doesn't mind my shopping habit." We chuckle.
"What's the one thing you will not tolerate?" he asks.
That's funny, I never really thought about what I won't tolerate, which is crazy at this point in my life. Um, I don't know. Why don't I know? But, I can't say I don't know, he's gonna think I have no direction in my life. Okay, it's coming to me. Oh, I know… "I won't tolerate selfishness," I say. Yeah, selfishness, that's a good answer. I don't want another selfish man in my life.
"What won't you tolerate?" You try sitting in the hot seat.
"A cheater,” just as quick and as clear as the air surrounding it. “When I'm in a relationship I'm totally committed. Relationships don't scare me. I like being committed. It may seem kind of old fashioned, but I expect the same thing out of my mate. You know, being totally committed."
"No you're not being old fashioned. That's probably on my list right up there with being selfish. I'm also a very committed person."
"What do you like to do in your spare time?"
"Shop."
"No, what do you really like to do? When you're done shopping?"
"I like movies."
"Really, what type of movies?"
"All kinds. Mainly I like dramas and suspense thrillers."
"I love movies too. I like to watch black and whites from back-in-the-day."
"Oh my gosh! I love black and whites. I was gonna say I love black and white movies, but I didn't want you to think I was crazy for watching those types of movies."
"What's crazy about watching black and white movies?" He asks, as the conversation takes a shift to a more serious note.
"Nothing..." I sit upright in my seat.
He says, with a huge grin that takes his eyes from almond to northly pointed angles with pupils, "Well, I guess we're both crazy! Have you seen Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?"
"Only a hundred times!"
The waitress places the ticket, tucked in the pocket of a small leather envelope on the table. He eyes it closely. I drum my fingertips on the table. Right about now Alex would be telling me to cough it up, but this is our first date, but the way he is looking at it makes me think he may in the future, though.
It's hard to sit pretty when nervousness is rowing in a stream of queasiness up your esophagus, and there’s a small patch of fire on your left butt cheek. I glance down at the floor and notice my foot.
It's right next to his.
And it's bigger than his.
Sizably!
I slide it underneath the table.
I hope he didn't see it.
This is why I wear stilettos, they cut the size of your foot in half, but sometimes you just have to pick your poison, being taller than a damn skyscraper or having feet the size of the Titanic. Wearing a bigger uglier more comfortable shoe, or squeezing your foot into a cute shoe. Then you can't wear sandals in the summer because your feet have taken a beating all winter, corns every which way.
"So did you enjoy your dinner?" He won’t even look up, and all I have is a credit card and it’s maxed-out.
"Uh huh," he says, eyes fixed on the ticket.
"Excuse me, Tina, could you come here for a second?" he calls to our waitress. "You over charged me by three dollars. I didn't order this," he points out her mistake on the ticket while giving her a friendly smile. I am so embarrassed.
As she walks off to make the correction on the ticket he places his eyes back on me.
"You know her?"
"No."
"How did you know her name?"
“It’s on her badge."
Now I feel stupid. "I never thought to look at someone's badge. I usually say excuse me or whatever..."
"That's what it's there for. I always try to use common courtesy. Everyone deserves it."
He pays and we leave.
During the car’s steady movement the walls of my stomach touch. Salty saliva fills up my mouth coupled with a pulling underneath my chin.

"Pull the car over. I think I'm going to be sic—."
Big chunks of smothered southern cakes fly out of my mouth with all of the strength of a half-evening’s warning. Sticks to the leather seats and drains on thread paths to the floor, where the rest soaks into the carpet.
The empty jerking of my stomach leaves me gagging at the scene. Tongue hanging out, eyes bloodshot red, veins flexing in my neck, snot dripping from my nose. Talib rubbing my back.
"You alright?"
"I think so." I'm mortified.

I go straight inside of the convenience store bathroom and peel the patches from my butt. My makeup has taken a shape of its own, mascara is smudged around my eyes and the tangerine lipstick has fled to the outer edges of my lips leaving crust in the center.
I rinse my mouth even though I know I can forget about a good night kiss, powder my face and reapply my tangerine lipstick. My head is still spiraling when I get back outside.