The display said “Mickey.”
I glared at it and the time above it, which told me it was ten to six.
I wanted to let it ring, go to voicemail, force him to make more of an effort to get in touch with me, but that was petty.
And I was no longer petty.
So I hit the button to accept then hit the button for speaker.
“Hey,” I greeted.
“On my way home from work.”
What?
No.
Whatever.
“Fascinating news,” I replied.
He said nothing for a few seconds before he stated, “Forgot if you had bacon on your burger.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”
He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?
No, he was not.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”
“What?” he asked.
“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”
“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.
“I’m hungry,” I replied.
“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”
The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.
“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.
There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”
“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed frequently,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”
“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.
“You can get your burger. The omelet’s just for me. And you can’t come over. I have plans this evening.”
He didn’t sound amused when he asked, “You got plans?”
“I do,” I confirmed.
“What plans?” he pushed.
“I’m washing my hair,” I snapped. “Now, the butter in the skillet has melted. I have to go. I’m sure I’ll talk to you later…someday.”
“Am—”
I hit the button to disconnect, turned off the ringer and turned my phone over so I couldn’t see the display. When it vibrated, making noise against my counter, I shoved it in a drawer and picked up the remote to turn on my system across the room, bringing up Pandora and listening to my Billie Holiday station.
The day was gray and drizzling. I was eating alone. Mickey was probably still dating a redhead who was not me. And he thought he could come over whenever he could squeeze me into his life.
It was time for the blues.
I was about to slice the side of my fork through the finished omelet, and not looking forward to it, when the banging came at my door.
My head whipped that way.
Through the glass, I saw Mickey.
On no, he was not banging on my door like he was angry when he said we needed to make plans and I agreed and asked when, then he did not bother to reply to me.
I wasn’t sitting around, anxiously awaiting his attention!
And I was not going to be the type of woman who accepted the scraps of attention from a man.
He had a busy life? He had things going on? We had to plan and be patient and time our moments together?
I could do that.
If we spoke about it, like two adults, and we both knew where we stood.
Not Mickey expecting I’d be hanging around waiting for him to decide to bring some burgers to me.
And being one of those two adults, the one not banging on someone’s door, I decided I’d be adult enough to share that with him.
I dropped my fork, stomped across the landing, unlocked the door and threw it open.
“I have a bell, you know,” I informed him acidly.
He moved in, his big body in motion meaning I had no choice but to get out of his way, so I did.
I watched him turn and did this shutting the door.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
“Washing your hair?” he asked back angrily.
“Yes,” I returned. “Though I haven’t gotten to that portion of my exciting evening yet. However, before I get to it, I’ll thank you not to bang on my door, which has beautiful stained glass in it that I very much like and would prefer it stays exactly how it is. So, in future, I’ll ask you to use the bell.”
He planted his hands on his hips, asking, “What’s this game, Amy?”