“Anything to go? I can’t eat it all by myself,” I pushed the fact.
“Go ‘head.”
As I fixed his to-go plate, he fiddled with my record collections before settling on D’Angelo’sBrown Sugaralbum.Brown Sugarserenaded lowly throughout the living room. I joined him, humming along after sealing his plate in a grocery bag.
“Why are you single?” He spoke, breaking my thoughts, cutting through my vocals, had me sounding like a broken record with his impromptu question.
I was on the other end of the sectional. There was a towel that I’d given him on the couch, so the wet spot could dry faster. I had a mindset to clean over the spot with some disinfectant later on.
My shoulders hunched up. “I’m picky about who I let into my space.”
Romelo nodded. He was so manly looking. Any movement he made, subtle movements too, his muscles flexed. Romelo wasn’t buff or butch. He was lanky but still fit, like he had an active gym membership and kept his body toned just enough. When he reached into his pocket and shook a baggy of weed, he was polite enough to ask if he could smoke in my home before rolling up and firing up the Russian cream.
“I can dig it. I know you turn down numbers and shit every other day.”
“It isn’t flattering,” I murmured.
Grabbing my ankle with the Cuban anklet snaked around it, I placed it under my thigh and cocked my elbow on the couch and rested the side of my face in my palm.
“How come it ain’t? You know niggas in the hood want you. Niggas like me like being used for something after getting something. If it’s worth it.”
“That’s the thing. Niggas want pussy only and don’t want to do all that comes with working for it or keeping it. Pussy has maintenance. Pussy has bills,” I shrugged. “Niggas have motives that don’t go beyond anything besides fucking. I’ve never been flattered by being called thick or the big girl, or whatever society deems plus size. The social fetish that men have over me is creepy.”
“Yeah,” he inhaled with a slow head nod, then slowly exhaled, making sure to turn the other way to avoid blowing smoke in my face. “Niggas be wanting a lot after providing a little. You want a hit?”
“No, I’m good.”
“You don’t smoke?” He grinned, revealing a VVS bottle grill.
“I don’t drink either.”
“Juicy, you’re a good girl.”
“Yeah, I’m the party pooper too. I don’t see how people get high. I tried an edible and was high for two weeks,” I guffawed.
“An edible high is some whole other shit,” he waved me off. “That shit is a baby step from taking shrooms.”
“Well, I’ll never do it again. One time taught my ass a lot, and I don’t see how people drink, scrunch up their face, and keep on drinking it. I threw up for days after drinking some Don Julio. My recovery landed me in the emergency room.”
He chuckled. “You’ll get used to it. You need to drink it with a chaser. Should’ve drank some pickle juice. It eliminates the taste and the hangover ain’t a pain in the ass.”
“Hmm Hmm, it sounds like you know how to party.”
“I know how to get on my level…have a good time too.”
I grinned as I began to toy with my hair. The mellow neo-soul music, a warm blanket of sound, filled the space between us before I spoke.
“Thank you again for the money the other day.”
He darted his eyes open. They were beginning to get red and low. “Don’t sweat the small shit.”
“It helped out in more ways than you know.”
“I don’t even know how much I gave you. It was whatever I had in my pocket.”
“I flipped it,” I blurted out.
Leaning back on the couch, he looked more relaxed now. Glancing over at me, he licked his lips before taking another pull from the blunt.
