The corner of his mouth jumps.
“You out here lookin’ good.”
He leans against the back rail,
eyeing me head to toe.
“You been ghostin’ the studio or what?…
“We gotta get together soon.
“Vibe a little.
“Lay somethin’ down.”
He adjusts his chain,
then points at me as he says it?—
“Location?
“Straight fire, Allie. You a beast with it.”
Got Your Location (but not your loyalty),
a dumb song thrown together in one session.
Then he pulls thehumble-but-not-reallycard:
“We the dream team.
“You know your pen good with me on the mic, right?”
Translation:
You’re welcome for letting me rap your pain.
The elevator dings. Perfect timing.
But when the doors peel back,
they reveal Raymond?—
dark hair, greying at the temples,
tailored jacket, fitted jeans,
limited-edition Nikes.
A man in his forties
hanging onto youth by the fucking shoelaces.
Killjoy and Raymond shake hands,
exchanging a few empty words.
Then Killjoy leans closer,
