“No, we really don’t.”
She stares at me.
I stare back, then cave.
“What’re we gonna do, huh?”
She scoffs. “I dunno. Slash his tires.
“Key‘fuckboy’in the hood.”
She tilts her head,
eyes still wild, scary, and unblinking.
“I’m high and hurt. You think I give a fuck?”
“We’re not slashing non-Drake’s tires.”
Silence drops between us.
Her eyes narrow. “You ain’t high.”
Itsk. “Iamhigh.”
“No, you ain’t.”
Her gaze drags down my body, suspicious.
“If you were high,
“you’d already be holdin’ my purse.”
I pop a brow. “You doubtin’ me, bitch?”
I’m nodding, unzipping my purse,
digging past my travel masturbation kit and cigs.
I find the pocketknife and flip it open.
“Bet,” I mutter, crouching by the tire.
One clean shank. As if I do this all the time.
Her jaw drops,
both her and the tire gasping together.
“Bitch, you high as fuck, you crazy?”
I close the blade and toss it across the hood.
She catches it, little miss crazed animal.
“Fuck you, Drake.” She spits on the tire,
then slashes it.
