Those who eventually got close enough to come to know him were surprised to discover that behind the intimidating exterior was a soft-spoken, cerebral man; a gentle soul with a surprisingly dry and wicked wit.  It was the latter, his sense of humor, that more than anything piqued and held Monica’s interest and it was what kept her from writing him off as yet another out-of-towner seeking what she loved to call “chittlin’ therapy”; those men and women who thought sitting down to a home-cooked meal served in an “authentic soul food restaurant” and having a chat with the locals somehow magically restored the humanity they were so fearful they had sacrificed to pursue or maintain their careers. 

Other than a mutual love of pastry—he was a fiend for chocolate croissants; the things she could do with flour, water, and butter were criminal—and classical music—Tyrell’s appreciation was instilled in his youth courtesy of a working class father who was an avid fan of the London Philharmonic Orchestra; Monica’s, vicariously through shows on Public Broadcasting television—there was not much they had in common.  It didn’t matter.  Tyrell said they had a lifetime to develop common interests and suggested they concentrate on the one that nearly every man and woman in one way or another had in common: “Sex,” he laughed.

Monica laughed, too.  She was thinking money.

 ###

         That had been four years ago. Sadly, there had not been much to laugh at or about.  The “big corporate law firm in New York” she told folks Tyrell had joined was not in the city of New York but rather the state; the practice was small and specialized in civil law; Tyrell’s hours were long and his time away to depose clients even longer.  But worst of all was the harsh realization that she had traded one small Podunk city, Cranstonville, for another, Morganton; the only difference was that the latter was much bigger and had strip malls.  Her only saving grace was the one-way 90 minute commute she made three days a week into The City and to the bakery, Sweet Nothings. 

Except for her job at the bakery, a “gift” from Tyrell that was actually a favor he called in from a law school buddy, Monica had absolutely no use for Morganton—or she had come to bitterly refer to it, with increasing frequency as of late, “Morgue-ton.” 

          Thus it was rather fitting to conclude the desktop encounter between Monica and her cousin-in-law, Steve Bradley, could not have been any more cold and clinical if it had taken place atop an autopsy table, at least for her. 

  ~*~

 Oh I'll never know what makes this man
With all the love that his heart can stand
Dream of ways to throw it all away

           As she smoothed down her skirt and rearranged her apron about her waist, Monica wondered briefly what thoughts were occupying the handsome head of the caramel colored sexual dyna-no before her.  She told herself she really didn’t care what the hell Steve thought.  A too-tight tug as she tied the apron’s strings caused her to conclude perhaps she was giving it more thought than she realized. 

          “We’re gonna be getting together with some of the fellas, to watch the game this weekend. Did Ty tell you to whip up a sweet potato pie?” Steve’s molten gaze traveled the down the length of her body then up again; lingering on her supple lips, a smug, satisfied smile settled on his as he finally let his eyes meet hers.  “He was telling the absolute truth when he said you had the sweetest one in the city,” he laughed.

          Silently Monica wondered how such a gorgeous body could house such a rotten soul.  Of course, she had no room to speculate about the state of one’s soul, she quickly reminded herself. 

~*~

Oh Gravity is working against me
And gravity wants to bring me down

~*~