“I don’t disagree. I don’t.”
“Because you can’t.”
She tossed her hands up, surrendering.
I gripped the lime between my fingers, holding the small glass steady in the other hand. There were so many reasons to celebrate. I couldn’t allow my transgressions to deplete me. In a single month, my mother had birthed three girls.
November 06 was Roulette’s day.
November 16th was Range’s day.
November 29th was my day.
We chose to celebrate together. With Range’s birthday mid-month, our celebration fell closer to her born day by default.
“To Range.”
“And Rou.”
“And Ro.”
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Our glasses touched and then hit the table simultaneously. I kissed the rim, flipping the glass over until the contents were emptied. I followed up with the lime, squeezing it into my mouth.
“Argh,” I groaned, hating the taste of tequila flowing down my throat, but loving the effects on my nervous system.
It numbed the pain. One week of not hearing from or seeing Ishmael had turned into two. I didn’t have the gumption to fly to Berkeley and demand his time or his love or his energy. The fear of returning alone was too crippling. So, I stayed. I stayed where I was loved, cherished, understood, welcomed, and supported.
“Ahhhhh!” Tiana squealed.
August’s position altered immediately. He obliterated the space between them. I observed as he leaned over, whispering the unknown in her ear. The smile on her face revealed the nature of his words.
A pain soared through me. Drunken nights weren’t meant to end alone. Neither were they meant to end in your sister’s bed. Drunken nights were meant for dick sucking and riding my man into oblivion. My mouth watered at the thought of Ishmael. Post-period hormones were raging. My center was throbbing.
I slid my phone from my purse and unlocked the screen. Instagram was my destination. I played the story I’d posted an hour ago. It wasn’t the video I was interested in. It was the viewers. I swiped up, scanning the long list until the names began to blur.
“Shit.”
I stopped scrolling when the familiar profile image appeared. The handle I’d created was next to it. Bold. Black. Breathtaking.
Ishmael.
I quickly added him to my close friends. I cleared the other names on the list, promising to add them all later. Those women were amongst me. They knew exactly what I was doing and how I was feeling. I didn’t need to document it for them.
I scanned my images for the one Range had snapped of me after entering our section. In the silk number trimmed in lace and pumps with a feathery strap to match, I held my hand toward the camera, reaching for it. The flash was low, giving it a soft yet vintage vibe that I loved so much.
I tapped the screen to add text. My fingers moved a mile a minute. The music drowned out in the background. So did everything and everyone around me. Ishmael wasn’t taking my calls. Neither was he accepting my texts. However, I was still on his heart. He was still on mine.
Loving comes so naturally I almost forget that there are other feelings just as potent. Like, missing you. It’s taxing. So is your absence. I wake up wanting you. I lay down wanting you. My heart is hanging on by a piece of nylon thread. Though strong, I doubt it can keep bearing the weight of us. Come get me. Come love me. I don’t like it out here. It’s cold. Come home.
I uploaded the image without a tune to match. I didn’t need distractions. I needed understanding. And, I needed my man.
Once the image had been uploaded, I shoved my phone in my purse. The night was about life, but I couldn’t forget my love. It was in shambles.
