Aliya S. King

I walk in. Another head nod from Omar.

Coffee?

Yeah, I say.

He turns to make the coffee.

There’s a Black man to my right, sitting at the counter, eating breakfast. I never see Black guys in Omar’s. For that matter, I never see Americans in Omar’s.

“What’s up Ma?” he says, his mouth full of food.

“I’m good,” I say, digging out a dollar for my coffee.

“You treating?” he asks.

“Not today,” I say. We both laugh.

“You married?” he says.

“Yes I am.”

Dude turns back to his food and looks up at the television.

Alrighty then.

I pay for my coffee. Omar says nothing.

“Have a good day,” I say to dude at the counter.

He just grunts.

So weird when a guy tries to kick it. (At least I think that’s what was going on there.) I want to call TH and say, “hey, guess what? A random guy tried to talk to me! And he wasn’t homeless! That schlumpy wife of yours who you see in the morning coaxing Tog out of the house with a graham cracker? She’s actually cute when she hits the streets with no kids! Occasionally, I do call TH and tell him this. He doesn’t seem to care that random men on the street often take note of my existence. Hmph.)

Sidebar: This morning, I said, “Tog, let’s put your paci and blankie in the crib.” She said. “Okay.”

And walked in her room, tossed them both over the side of the crib and then took my hand and said, “downstairs Mommy. Juice.”

Yay.

Omar.

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