The sugar and carb overload had proven ineffective as a sleep aid, much to Sweety's disappointment. She sat on her kitchen floor spinning the empty bottle of white wine, the visually soothing rotations trapping her under a light hypnosis. The basement apartment was curiously quiet this evening. There were always strange creaks occuring at night, the agitated rumblings of the previous tenant's ghost she suspected. When she moved in, the landlord, who lived upstairs, figured she had the right to know that the "other guy" had been shot to death in the apartment. He didn't realize his tenant was dead until the smell started coming up through the vents. The ringing phone beckoned Sweety to rejoin her depression already in progress. She had a feeling of who it was, the only person who ever called this late, her cousin Jocelyn. But why would she be calling on Valentine's night? Joselyn was a part of Atlanta's hip, in-crowd, a beautiful woman who was sought after by many well-established and connected men. She regularly called her cuz in DC to "check in," but Sweety was sure it was to brag on the fabulous life of Jocelyn Jones. Since all her ATL buddies were on the same level or higher, they wouldn't be impressed about her vacationing in Barbados with a Falcons player--but Sweety would.
Unknown caller. "Hello?" Sweety listened for her cuz's usual "Hey sweets, what's happening?"But there was only silence. She repeated the greeting and was met with a hangup. A few minutes later, the same thing. On the third time, Sweety waited a while before answering.
"Yes, hello?"
"Sweety? I'm calling because your name is in my man's phone, and you're the only contact of his I haven't heard about. How do you know Raymond?"
"Excuse me, who? I think you have the wrong number?"
"Then how did I know to ask for you by name? I didn't call for games, just to find out your affiliation with my man."
Sweety was timid by nature, considered shy by most who met her. But everybody has another side to balance out the one that the world sees. When backed into a corner, the chubby editor knew how to come out swinging, in her own little way. But this event was so peculiar, Sweety remained calm as she pondered if this was indeed her aunt playing on the phone.
"Jocelyn?"
"I'll be whoever you need me to be. Just stay the hell away from Raymond and we'll be okay."
Sweety sighed. "Ma'am, if you knew me at all, then you'd realize that you have the wrong person. I'm overweight and lonely, sexually neglected, and keep to myself most of the time. Had Raymond ever dialed this number, I would surely tell you, if only from the lingering disbelief that a man actually called me. I can't do this with you right now, I'm quite depressed and was contemplating suicide before you called. Your man is not interested in me, I assure you."
"Are you serious? I'm so sorry, ma'am, damn. I don't how Papi got your number, I don't even care at this point, 'cause I'm not trying to be the last person you spoke to. Please get some help." The caller hung up.
Sweety didn't feel any kind of way about the unusual discourse, her life seemed to be dictated by bizarre happenings like this. She threw away the wine bottle and empty box and took a few steps toward the bathroom before emitting a loud "Oh my god! I do know Raymond!" Sweety practically flew to turn on the computer, cursing at the excruciatingly long few moments it took to connect to the Internet.
A series of frantic keystrokes later she was reunited with the face of the man she'd successfully blocked out of her memory for the past year--Raymond "Papi" Carter, owner of the online community The Terror and Pleasure Garden.
-J.S.
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