Page 30 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I stare at it.

He’s too perfect. I don’t trust it.

So I push the bowl toward him.

“Pick one.”

He hesitates. “I’m good. But thanks.”

My face deadpans.

“Wasn’t a suggestion.”

His smile falters, and he grabs a red:

dangerous, confident, dominant.

Everything’s a test, even the Starburst⁠—

how long he hesitates,

which color he picks,

how often he checks his reflection.

The quiet shit

always screams the loudest.

Pink Starburst:

people-pleasers, trainable, in love.

Orange: obsessed, toxic,

might write me a song,

then key my car.

Yellows are serial killers.

Or people who turn down the volume.

“Red?” Celie claps once. “Oh, he one of them respectful ass-eaters.”

“Celie,” I mutter.

He grins,

popping the Starburst into his mouth.

I stand and shrug off the blazer, draping it over the back of the chair. “Rapid fire. I ask, you answer. Fast, no stalling. Spit, don’t think.”

He nods, eyes never leaving mine.

I walk toward him, my heels echoing in the room. “Give head or receive head?” I ask, circling his chair.

He straightens with the question. “Give,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me. “What kind of man picks ‘receive’ with two women starin’ at him?”