with the same tone as picking a nail color,
as if it’s not loaded.
My eyes stay glued to my screen,
afraid to see the judgment in her gaze for even asking.
And once she answers,
if I don’t listen,
I’m the stupid one.
Celie doesn’t let a second pass.
“No,” she snaps, head shaking.
“He needs time to process.”
It’s exactly what I would’ve said if the roles were reversed. “But he don’t even know what he’s processing,” I argue.
It’s not an excuse. It’s facts.
“All he’s got are two words: Ben. Boyfriend.
“That’s it. He deserves the full truth.”
Then my voice shrinks, “I think...
“Not like I really care either way,
“I’m just sayin'.”
The look on her face could sandpaper flesh off bone. “He don’t deserve to know a damn thing,” she scoffs. “Y’all ain’t even fuck. Calm your ass, it was one date.”
She leans forward?—
“He’s mad ‘cause it looked like you was two-timin’ Ben. And let’s be real—anybodybreathin’ woulda thought the same shit. Don’t mean he gets a fuckin’ claim. It's not his story or his fuckin’ life.”
I breathe out,
her words beating its fists against my chest.
I fucking hate how much sense she’s making.
But somewhere under all my mess,
all the reasons we could never be together,
all the steps he took when walking out on me,
I foolishly want him anyway.
It makes me want to kick a wall
just to make sure I'm still in control.
Usually I’m the one talkin’ her down from keyin’ a Beemer in Louboutins.
