“Still no text,” I mutter. To myself.
To the pigeon.
To God.
Cobain.
Heath Ledger.
Anyone up there.
The pigeon blinks slowly like?—
Boy’s got two thumbs and no balls? Shame.
You deserve better.
A male with feathers and hollow bones.
Not a hollow heart.
“I know, Tony. Deadass.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
I mutter into the mic again,
“Tell him you been focusing on personal growth. Positive changes. That crap.”
The mic scratches against her coat.
Then robot Celie returns.
“I’ve been working on personal growth and positive self-reflection.”
Drake chuckles uncomfortably.
“That’s… real specific, Celie.”
Are we chuckling with her, or at the situation?
It doesn’t matter. It’s a great transitional piece.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Say something funny. Lighten the mood.
“Humor is hot.
“Laugh, then drop an inside joke.”
Celie laughs in broken coughs,
like an old muffler spitting out smoke.
I wince.
“Sorry,” she says, stalling.
