Heal: Moving On
Tags: Urban, Heartbreak, Breakup, Love, Fiction

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Angela- Part Two

“Karma, please don’t be lenient with that asshole,” Angela says as she circles the parking lot of a local gym. She hopes wrath has a hold of him like rage does her.

She pulls into a parking spot and lights a cigarette. After Sevon left she turned into a chain smoker. As toxins float inside her car, she contributes the blaze of the sun to her dizziness.

She wouldn’t dare blame cigarettes. Although the doctor contributes her lighting up to everything. Angela decided a few years ago that Dr. Risolo wants her to be miserable. She doesn’t know who she would be without a stick of tobacco dangling from her brown lips.

Her doctor makes a minor smoking habit feel like a heroin addiction. She will lose her damn mind if he gives her another cancer pamphlet.

Angela is smart and knows she uses childish excuses to keep up with a habit that is holding her back in life. But she doesn’t think her love for cigarettes will die until she does.

Last week the expression on her doctor’s face said it all. She is positive he hates her. Hard, thick lines stacked on his forehead as Angela claimed anything can cause cancer.

“Hell, according to Google, the simple act of breathing leads to disease. Now we can’t eat bread, pasta, sugar, or lactose. This is getting ridiculous!” She said.

Dr. Risolo took the stethoscope from her chest. He had a metal expression, “Dietary restrictions are not a good baseline for your argument. Mrs. Waters, you are fine today, but you need to give up smoking! If you don’t want to be sick stop doing this to yourself.

“Doc, don’t people like me give you guy’s job security?”

“What an argument, but with brain injuries, preterm births, genetic disorders, and car accidents we have plenty to do.”

“Touché! Look, I swear I tried everything to break it off with cigarettes, but I only lasted two days.”

“Did you try the carrot sticks?”

Oh, goodness, she thinks, what sane person can nibble carrots while they sip wine.

“Um, carrot sticks,” her left palm drops, “Nicotine,” her right-hand raises.

The top of his head was covered in shades of silver. His eyes were like stone. His glare takes him to the cross hanging around her neck. He also has seen every inch of her, so she is sure he has seen the proverbs tattoo she got when she was drunk on her side.

Then he remembers she is only a human with a vice. One of his wrinkled eyelids close and open. He says, “For a woman with such strong convictions you sure are fighting this.”

“I can serve God and still be a smoker.”

“Who told you that?”

“Blame whoever came up with candy cigarettes. I had this addiction before I knew what it was.”

“That is the most absurd thing I have heard. Yes, I question the motives of the inventor, but they were not nicotine. Nice try.”

“It was the hand mouth gesture doc.”

“Angela!” He said. His hands were transparent and wrinkled as he typed on his laptop.

“Well, give me a prescription for that quit-smoking-shit. I mean stuff.”

“That shit is Lanxepron, and you are not a likely candidate because of your panic disorder. It doesn’t work well with chemical imbalances. Are you prepared to exchange a few symptoms for thirty side effects?”

Ugh, why did he say chemical imbalance turning her into a science project gone awry?

“Well, what the hell, Doc. You want me to quit with no help.”

“Angela, you don’t need help. You need to decide.”

“What about my social life? Smoking is a social behavior.” She pauses and thinks, who am I kidding? I don’t have a social life.

He peered over metal-frames, “Angela quit smoking or you won’t have a life period.”

“Okay, okay. After this pack.” She buttoned her shirt as he stood and walked out of the room.

What an old asshole, she thought.

Well, going cold turkey is impossible, because as she sits in her car puffing hot smoke like a dragon, she feels like a slave to her smokes.

She stretches her neck and sinks back into the leather seat. Her eyes catch the neon sign on a stone building. The first couple of letters have burned out and the rest flicker, Pro-Plus Boxing. The whole place needs upgrades. It was like Houston inside but she lives in Seattle.

There is no telling what caused her to sign up for lessons. It was an impulse buy, but the place had a vibe. The atmosphere was persuasive. It was the heavy leather scent and punching bags that got her going.

Jessie, the owner, told her how to make her first day tolerable. First, he said to drink adequate amounts of water. “Angela, divide your body weight by two. That is how many ounces you need.” Then he told her to get plenty of rest. The last he said was, “Excuses are anchors,” Then took in a whiff of air. “Oh, and you’re going to have to give up that habit.”

Angela hid her displeasure. What the hell is wrong with my cigarettes, she thought.

Jesse didn’t mean to stop now. Hell, decisions like that take time, patience, and planning. Also, water isn’t her favorite, so she slammed shots of tequila instead. She only got four hours of sleep but giving credit where it’s due, she showed. She just hasn’t gone in yet — but she showed.

Here we go, she says, and fans through the thick fog. She mists herself with a vanilla body splash. Her head slumps forward, and she shakes life back into her hair.

A minute later she steps past a threshold and into a secret society and embraces droves of black men. Sure, this place existed before her, but she feels like she has discovered some shit. There are four men gathered in the corner looking like a box of chocolates, and her discovering a place where powerful brothers gather brings feelings of camaraderie.

“So this privilege, “She mumbles.

She may be half black but her middle finger crosses over her index hoping she is enough. She thinks, This place didn’t look like this yesterday. Note to self, don’t bother coming on Sunday.

“Hello Monday,” she says under the speakers blaring above her head.

There is no empty air. What is not occupied by the stink of willpower is filled with the song Motivation by TI.

“You can look me in her eyes, see I’m ready for whatever. Anything don’t kill me, make me better. I ain’t dead nigga, you can take the fame and the chedda. And the game, any deal, I’m still a go-getter.”

The toffee skinned people have her salivating. Her heart rate climbs and her hands get damp. Her eyes latch on a tattooed man in the corner. He is doing triceps dips off a windowsill. Her pupils jiggle, following his up and down motion.

Her mind starts again, He over there looking like a felony, like some shit you do on impulse and spend the rest of your life making up for it, she thinks. He is dark, dark, and according to Dr. Risolo, It’s great for the heart.

Interesting how Angela’s love for exercise is increasing by the minute. Her excitement to do anything always shows up late. First, her physical body arrives, dragging her feet, and then something triggers her.

Moving from the bouncing man, her honey-browns float in search for anyone familiar. She takes in, to her left, a guy hanging from a metal bar. His body swings up and then down. His pain is detectable by his slow and steady grunting. It is rhythmic as if he means to make music, and her appreciation of him is silent but strong. He was there when Jesse gave her a tour, but they hadn’t spoken.

The man’s abs are well-defined and bracketed by his hands cuffed around his waist. A thick beard with a few light gray specs puts him in his late thirties or early forties. Thank God he is not wearing a shirt and suspended in the air, she can tell he is tall. He has an interesting collarbone, unusual because she has never up to that point considered a collarbone the main attraction.

He reaches for the metal bar and pulls himself up as his long legs swing, and he lands on his feet. It is difficult to describe a face like his. His eyes are fluid, custom gray, and set deep under lush eyebrows and his jaw squared off and groomed. His lips plump, pink and pausing. Her fingertips grow anxious, wanting to touch his velvet flesh. Each of his abs stacked on top of the other, and his arms look heavy to carry around.

“Hey, Queen. You were here yesterday?” as the word Queen spins her in both directions he laughs, “Oh, I see nobody has ever called you your birthright!” She didn’t answer because she couldn’t answer. He is correct. Nobody ever referred to Angela as a ruler. The word enters her and causes expansion.

It is imminent, the bond soon to form between them. With only five letters Q-U-E-E-N, he is saying, I welcome you. You are gorgeous and guarded. Now, as the bulky figure passes, she hopes she will not regret this day.

He crosses her close, and she inhales his determination to keep his body toned. She is sure he will be this way well into his sixties. He is behind the counter. Her feet stick to the same place she fell in love with him. If they share five minutes alone, she won’t take it for granted.

“Get yourself a bottle of water and find a bag. The class will start soon.” He says.

Angela’s pink and black gym bag slips between moist fingers and falls to the ground. She breaks free from the trance he put her in and plugs in her earbuds as Keri Hilson belts the lyrics to her song Energy. She had placed her song on repeat — self-inflicted emotional wounds.