She posts up at the coffee pot,
leaning against the counter.
“Arap, Allie? Nah... I don't know.”
“Verse only,” I clarify.
“No hook. Long-form. Storytelling.”
She pours another cup. “I mean… I don’t know the guy. But that’s some Sonny-ass behavior right there. Allergic to feelings unless there's a beat under it."
I shake my head, but she’s not done?—
“Matter'a fact? Send it,” she says, turning, stirring. “Ain’t about what he does after. You say your piece. Rest is on him.”
I blow out a breath.
“Guess we’re about to find out if he’s the kind of guy who wants the truth, or just cuts and runs like I never existed,” I say.
She lifts her mug, toasts the air.
“Just bein’ real,” she starts. “If it was me?
“First date, homeboy’s girl shows up? I’m gone. Any rap shit he sendin’ after? Blocked.Buhhh-locked.”
She talks into her coffee
like it’s every ex who did her wrong,
“‘Cause we all know?—
“he do that to her? He’ll do that to you.”
The words slam into me.
Andrew’s probably thinking the same.
She’s a lying cheater.
So, yeah,
sending the rap makes the most logical sense.
“A rap’s safe, right? Stupidly adorable,”
I say in defense.
“If I got one, It’d rip a grin outta me.”
“Of course you think it’s cute.”
She pats my head.
“You a writer. Y’all only got two speeds:
“heartbreak or fairy tale.
“No boring middle.”
