A shrug wrapped in syllables.
I can hear Celie's smile through the static?—
“Yeah. We’re doing this.”
Drake runs a palm over his head,
shoves both hands into his jacket,
and sits down like?—
fine, let’s get this shit over with.
Celie then melts into her spine, smiling at him.
Justsmiling.
For three seconds straight.
I press the mic again.
“Tell him he looks good.”
Celie beams. Very hard.
“You look good. Like, annoyingly good.”
Drake glances at his shoes. “Thanks. You too.”
The pigeon moves in closer,
here to negotiate terms.
He hops onto the bench without asking.
“Ask him what he’s been up to,” I whisper.
She clears her throat.
“So… what you been up to?”
Drake picks something off his jeans.
“You know. Work. Gym. Therapy.”
Celie gasps. “Yo, I fuckin’ love therapy.”
I slam the mic. “Don’t say that.
“No onelovestherapy. Not even therapists.”
“Not,”Celie says low, leaned in.
"Therapy fuckin'suuhhhcks.”
Drake laughs, empty enough to echo.
“Look, Celie, I don’t know what you want from me. We’ve been over this. What’s there left to say?”
