The stove says15:43.Another impatient knock. I jump as it sounds like banging.
I scurry to the fridge with a grin on my face, “This better work.”
My face twists as I shove a serving of sea moss down my throat.Eyuckkk!
I straighten, fill a glass with water and rinse my mouth of the taste.
“Francine!”
Alright, alright! I’m coming!
I don’t bother checking the peephole. I just open the door and he fills the frame.
Tracksuit, hood up, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, breath still heavy as if he moved fast to get here. His eyes lock onto mine instantly, like he’s been imagining this moment the entire journey.
“You actually came,” I say, stupidly.
He steps inside without answering, toeing the door shut behind him. The flat feels smaller the second he’s in it.
“I told you I would,” he says quietly.
I cross my arms, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re mad.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I’m fucking mad Francine.”
Oh, government name.
“I’d ask why but I think it’s pretty clear.”
“You better not have a nigga in here.”
I scoff, stepping aside. “And if I do?”
He drops his bag by the door.
That makes me jump.
“You think you’re so funny right?” He steps closer.
Our eyes meet again.
“I like to think I’m quite hilarious actually.”
“Yeah, I bet you do.” He looks around the room like he’s trying to find something. Fucking hell, he really thinks I have a nigga in here.
“You keep playing with me, and I’m fed up.” He reaches out, hesitates like he’s waiting for permission this time. When I don’t react, his hand goes to my neck and squeezes lightly. “I could choke you out for the shit you put me through the last few hours.”
Oh?
“Then do it,” I push.
“Tuh, the last time I was rough with you, your fragile arse broke.”
HEY!
“Ay! Who you calling bloodclaat fragile?”
“You,” he squeezes tighter. “The last time I gave you this dick, you kicked me out so I couldn’t see you crack. But before that I had you squirting off head alone.”
