Page 143 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Soon as he reaches the first alley on his right, he ducks in.

His fist hits the brick.

Then he collapses into it.

‘Duckin’ me?…’

‘Don’t care what kinda shape you’re in.’

‘you’re full of shit, gettin’ off on bein’ a fuckin’ tease…’

‘Everyone knows who you are, what you do…’

‘…say I’m yours,’

‘say I’m all you think about.’

His knuckles bleed warm, then cool fast. The skin around ‘em burns, but he don’t feel the pain. His shoulders sag, breath rippin’ ragged outta his chest, all of it pourin’ now that there’s nobody watchin’.

And his whole body shakes, finally done pretendin’ for the night. Everybody’s best time, and nobody’s real thing.

And when the lights go out, when he’s left standin’ there at the end, he’s just Andrew—hands reekin’ of guitar strings, sex, and pussy.

Alone.

Completely and always so fuckin’ alone.

42 / THE TASTE OF INK

THE USED

// DEC 4, ’24, 5:16 AM - JFK AIRPORT - QUEENS, NY //

We missed the flight.

Now I’m stuck in coach—middle seat damnation—wedged between husband and wife who’d sooner slit their wrists than share an armrest.

I offered to switch. They’d rather die.

Peppermints, cough drops, and side-eyes pitch right across my face, as if I’m the oops-child that kept them married.

And the fucked-up part? Every time their annoyed glances pass me by, my brain flashes to Andrew and me twenty years from now.

His huff. My eye-roll.

His jaw stiff from years of clenching.

My resting bitch-face on ice.

Hearts still chained,

but beating off-rhythm.

Two idiots too stubborn to let go of each other, then made a goddamn life sentence out of it.

“Allie! YO, ALLIE!” Celie’s holler bulldozes through two aisles and babies crying. Heads turn, but not mine. “You know this your fault, right?” I roll my eyes, she keeps going, “You too busy tryna catch Six-Point-Five bein’ a slut, now we separated!”

I pretend not to hear her.