Page 256 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I snap out of it, jolting out of the recliner so fast the footrest slams shut and Maria startles. “Shit. Would ya look at the time,” I blurt, checking my wrist.

No watch.

“Gotta go. I got an appointment too. In five. Already late.” I point at nothing with a laugh. “This was… great. Really.

“Girl time. Memories.

“Kisses and condolences.

“Okay, bye.”

Twenty-four seconds later, I’m peeling around the corner of the street so fast an ice cube slings out of Celie’s cup and smacks me in the cheek.

My face doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.

“B-bro-bro,” Celie shrieks. “You took that ninety-degree turn so-so acute, the ice SLUNG⁠—”

A laugh floods her, and she can’t finish, her palm coming down on the dash with a smack.

I look over at her, my face stone-cold, and she’s laughing so hard it’s silent, tears streaming down her face.

“B-bro, the ice—oh my God—the ICE⁠—

“ICE DONE JUMPED SHIP, BRO⁠—

“I CAN’T—I can’t breathe⁠—

She’s wheezing, face wet.

“You so damn pissed,

“it slaps you in the face and-and⁠—

“Dis bitch don’t react.”

She cackles. And cackles.

All the way across the Hudson.

// DEC 13, 3:20 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //

When I’m hurt, I bleed out, and make music with the blood.

I compose from my compost,

spilling crimson pain

over pages in eighth notes,

splash it across lyrics,

drip between beats,

use it to paint the walls

standing between them and me.

Because art comes from intensity,