“What the fuck?” the victim mutters.
But he doesn’t finish,
slinking back on his heels, wiping his mouth.
Celie’s doubled over,
laughing so hard she might piss herself.
(And I do mean actual piss.
She’s got a record.)
People passing by whistle and laugh.
One girl screams “Sing it, Bitch!”
And I do, with my purse as an air guitar.
For the abandoned pussy in the alley.
For Celie’s broken heart.
For the guy in the shadows, hanging his head.
For me.
And for all of New York City.
Because if I can’t have my name,
they can choke on the sound.
“Yo—” guy calls out, breathless,
laughing. “You singin’ to me right now?”
“Better than all the moanin’ I wasn’t hearin’,” I call out, then turn my voice to the girl, “Baby girl, life’s too short to fake it. Say the universal girl code, and I’ll walk my ass over there and finish the job.”
Celie wheezes, slapping my shoulder.
“What’s the code?”
“C’mon. Pineapple. Don’t play dumb.
“Every girl knows that.”
“Yeah?” he calls out from the shadows, hand slipping from her leg as he turns, fully facing me now. “You wanna tag in, sweetheart? You and me, we can do it together. She won’t mind.”
Fun. A cunnilingus collab.
I tilt my head.
“That your way of callin’ for backup?
“Need my help?”
Both the girl against the brick and Celie laugh.
