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Nothing.
Yet.
Still, my mind took that pinprick of disappointment and added it to the lyrical cocktail brewing in my mind. Fragments and fractions and components of a smooth flow of rhymes swirled around in there, but nothing came together as a whole.
Yet.
Fibonacci, factorials. Pythagoras, pi. Trajectory, tangent. Proportions.
Thirty-six-twenty-five-thirty-six…
Hourglass. Grace. Time is ticking; hour-Grace?Our Grace.
No.
Parabolas? Peaks and valleys—a sin wave.
Sinning with a sin wave. Maybe…?
A gentle curve.
Grace’s perfect tits…
I shook my head, which made her tits jiggle.
This was ridiculous. She was just a hookup; nothing more. So why was she stuck in my mind corrupting my creativity like this?
I opened the door to the control room, stepped inside, and flicked on the lights.
Hundreds of buttons, dials, and switches on the mixing panel illuminated rainbow colors and the live room beyond the glass flickered to life. The custom glass sculpture on the back wall brightened, spelling outPerfect Ten Labsin neon cyberpunk glory.
I owed the design of this space to Noah. He’d gotten me the hookup with Glass Candy, who’d set their geniuses on building “the perfect recording studio.”
They’d done it. Everything in this space was tricked out with state-of-the-art audio equipment and cyberpunk touches. Industrial, futuristic, LED lights, neon tubing, and rainbow-colored everything. Any rando on the street could walk in here and instantly know that this small, tight space was a womb that birthed magic into the world.
There was nothing to do until Mea Culpa and Spoken showed up, so I had some free time to stretch my creative mind. I sat in the chair and started messing around with some beats to warm up.
My eyes darted to my phone on the panel nearby.
Why the fuck did I let Noah take her home? I should’ve been the one to do it.
I just sat there at the kitchen counter like a fucking cuck while he offered to give her a ride home on his fucking white horse.
I saw the way she looked at him; the way her pupils swelled when he showed up looking all showered and clean-cut. When he handed Grace her repaired dress, I could see her face go through her mental checklist and peg him as her perfect Prince Charming.
If he was Prince Charming, I was the prince of darkness riding in on my black horse, shooting poison-tipped arrows into the dark for fun. Usually, the women I dated would just sit there and take my projectiles like a pincushion, get insulted, call me an asshole, and never call me again. I’d been accused of negging more times than I could count.
But all I really wanted was for them to neg me back; have a battle of wits. I craved someone who could keep up with me; insult me. Keep the dance going.
Which, I think was why Grace was stuck in my head.
With any other hookup, I would have forgotten about them as soon as they walked out the door. But Grace had insulted me with her salty little comment:
“I could laugh and pretend you’re the first guy to say that to me, but I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”
She had fight in her; a sign of life.
E.T. phone this homie, baby.
