Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [91]
Times like this, when her mistakes called out her name as she tried to go on with her life, she understood why she missed Tyrone so. Sometimes the way Tyrone’s face went open and submissive when he looked at her made her feel so pure inside, even if he was usually broke and couldn’t keep a car running for longer than a day. The honesty that hung around his eyebrows when they dipped in a smile for her was sometimes enough to replace the candlelit, white linen–draped tables where they never dined.
She was almost to the Laundromat, and in the next block, just beyond the cyclone fenced–in hedges that surrounded her church building, she could see the orange and blue sign that said PERRY’S PRINTSHOP. Suddenly she needed to see Tyrone right now. She couldn’t wait for this weekend, she needed to have Tyrone’s pretty country boy eyes melt when he looked at her. Needed to have the sight of his eyebrows take away that dented, rusty feeling.
Damn, she thought, she really did have a well of feelings for Tyrone that right now were bubbling to the surface and threatening to spill over. And that rarely happened. He was usually the one making the first moves, pulling on her, begging. And even then sometimes her meanness would get harder than his manhood, and she’d deny him. But this evening she decided she would let her feelings for him spill over. Already the brimming that was starting deep in her softness was warm and silky, made her step up her pace, heavy cart and all, so she could throw the clothes in the extra-large-capacity washer, set it to long wash, and run up the street to see if Tyrone was still at the shop.
Her footsteps took on a new rhythm once she’d stuffed the dirty clothes in the washer and was back outside. Now the wind was at her back as she walked beyond the church and was right across the street from the printshop. She couldn’t tell because of the two-way mirror that took up the whole storefront whether or not the shop was still open. She just knew that it was well after 5:00, and she knew before Tyrone moved to Philadelphia, Perry closed up at 5:00 P.M. sharp. But Tyrone would stay late—at least until last night he would—keep the place opened until 8:00 or 9:00. They’d even used the double-length worktable on occasion and moved to the beat of Martha and the Vandellas singing “Heat Wave” pushing through the AM/FM transistor that Tyrone kept by the press. She thought about the last time they’d used that table. Asked him what was the table’s real intended use. “For spreading out work on,” he’d said innocently, and then they’d both broken up in laughter as she’d smoothed at her blouse and he stepped back into his shoes.
She was excited at the thought of coming on to Tyrone for a change. She’d ask him if his spreading-out table was clear, purse her lips, lick her finger, and touch it to his cheek. She was at the door to the printshop now, and even her ungloved hands, which had gotten cold and stiff and sore from gripping the handles of that heavy cart, were warm and throbbed at the thought.
She turned the knob and the door opened easily and there Perry stood, like he’d been expecting her. She remembered his wall of a two-way mirror, knew that he’d probably been watching her since she’d turned the corner and stood across the street waiting for the light to change. She was embarrassed, Perry looking at her, eyebrows arched in a mild question mark as if he’d been able to read her thoughts about Tyrone and her on that table. She looked away, her blood pulsing in her ears.
“Is Tyrone around?” she asked the floor, and the orange-glowing space heater on the floor, and the printing press, and the sharp-edged paper cutter, because she certainly couldn’t ask Perry, couldn’t even look at him after he’d caught her face the one time it was filled up for his son, and now it was filled up for him, and if she looked at him, he might know that too.
“No, Miss Ramona,” he said