“Boy,” she complained as she forced herself out of bed.
The chill of the floor traveled through her soles up to her chest, and she shivered as she pulled at the hem of the off-shoulder t-shirt she used as pajamas.
She pulled open the door to find Day holding her key, allowing it to hang from one finger.
“As promised,” he said.
“It’s late.” Again, complaining.
If there was one thing she hated, it was for her sleep to be broken.
“Yeah, my fault. I got caught up,” Day replied.
“You smell like you got caught up,” she said, standing in the sliver of the doorway. She had opened it just enough to see his face. “Weed, Louis XIII, and ewww,” she paused, frowning her face. “It smells like a bitch bathed you in Baccarat.”
“Yo, you one of them?” He asked, chuckling while he scratched the back of his neck.
“One of what?” She frowned.
“One of them crazy chicks. You can track a nigga whole life. Better than a detective.”
She laughed. “Niggas love to call women crazy for reacting to their bullshit. If we are keeping it real, men love when women act up because it makes y’all feel desired, like the man. Like you got the biggest dick in the world.”
“I’d rather not replace my windshields,” Day snickered.
“That’s cliché. I’d steal your keys and watch you look for them. Do shit like take your wallet and when you replace the cards, take them out the mail before you get to the replacements. You know… little practical shit to fuck up your day over time.”
Day’s eyebrows raised, stunned. He was high as hell. She could see it in his delayed reactions. Cottonmouth caused him to lick his lips.
“Women are some devilish creatures,” he said, squeezing his lips while shaking his head.
“You wage war on my heart, I’ma wage war on your mind. Everything is fair play in love.”
“That ain’t love, though. That shit sound like hate,” Day replied.
“Aren’t they the same thing depending on your mood?” She asked.
The question stumped him. “You might be right.”
She pushed the door open wider. “You can come in, sober up,” she said.
She retrieved bottled water from her refrigerator and handed it to him before leading him to the living room.
He sat on the couch, stretching one arm across the back and kicking out one leg. Too damn comfortable. His eyes glanced at the wine bottle and the bills scattered on the coffee table. She had been working on her budget before she had gone to bed. She quickly scooped them into a pile and put them face down. Hersavings would be depleted after three months if she didn’t get a new job soon.
“I’m sorry about your job,” he said.
“It’s my dream. I risked my whole dream.” Her disappointment was heavy.
“The crazy thing about them dreams,” he said as he leaned forward and picked up the wine bottle. He poured a glass and then nodded for her to pick it up.
She smiled. “It’s three in the morning.”
“You ain’t got a job to get up for.”
His joke landed first as an insult, and then Stassi snickered.
“Boy, fuck you!” She said, laughing. She shook her head. Might as well laugh to keep from crying. Might as well drink to keep from sulking. Fuck it. It was a party.
