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“Nigga,” I snap, sparkin’ my blunt, “do you know what time it is?” I take a deep pull.
He laughs. “Yeah, it’s time for ya sexy ass to spend some time wit’ a muhfucka. You played me the other day when I came through. That was some foul shit, ma.”
I laugh. “Nigga, I told you what it was. Nobody told ya dumb-ass to come out tryna check for me.”
“Yeah, aiight; whatever. You got that. So when I’ma see you again?”
“Neva,” I say, crackin’ my window and blowin’ out weed smoke.
He sucks his teeth. “Yo, fuck outta here. Where you at?”
“Nigga, what I tell you ’bout tryna check for me?”
He starts laughin’. “Yo, you mad funny; for real for real.”
This time, I suck my teeth. “Whateva. I ain’t laughin’ muhfucka. Why is you callin’ me this time’a night, anyway?”
“’Cause a muhfucka was thinkin’ ’bout you; that’s why. You gotta problem wit’ that?”
“Do you,” I state, goin’ through the E-Z Pass toll for the Verrazano. “I got more pressin’ shit to be concerned wit’, than you tryna stalk’a bitch.”
“Oh, yeah? Anything you wanna talk about?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
“Well, the offer stands. If you change ya mind, I’m all ears.”
I laugh. “Yeah right, muhfucka. You just tryna get some pussy.”
“Yo, chill wit’ that. I’m dead-ass. If you need someone to talk to I got you.” On the real, I don’t know if the nigga’s kickin’ some live shit or not, but it sounds good. I thank ’im. “Oh, no doubt, ma. So, what you gettin’ into tonight?”
“Not you,” I say, speedin’ down the Belt Parkway toward Brooklyn.
“Yeah, aiight. That’s ’cause you too scared I’ma have you dick whipped. But you need to let me come through and help you take ya mind off shit.”
“Nigga, puhleeeeeze, that’s what you want’a bitch to be. But, trust. I ain’t’a weak bitch, so it’s gonna take more than a big, black dick to get me whipped.” I take another pull off my blunt. “So take that dumb shit onto the next trick ’cause I ain’t the one.”
He starts laughin’ again. “Let me stop fuckin’ wit’ you, ma. Like I said, I was thinkin’ ’bout you so I wanted to hit you up. If a muhfucka is outta pocket for havin’ you on the brain, let me know.”
I shake my head. “It’s whateva. It’s all good.”
“I bet it is,” he says all low ’n sexy. “What you got on?”
“Clothes, muhfucka,” I snap, veerin’ off onto Linden Boulevard. “Look, can I hit you back lata? I’m kinda in da middle of handlin’ sumthin’.”
“Yeah, aiiight. No doubt. Go handle ya business, ma. I’ll get at you.”
“Cool,” I tell ’im as I make a right onto Amboy Street, then pull into the parkin’ garage. I find a parkin’ space up on the third level, pull in, then sit and finish smokin’ my blunt. I check my face ’n hair in the mirror, then get outta my whip, clickin’ the alarm.
As I’m makin’ my way through the walkway to the hospital, my cell rings again. It’s Chanel. “Wasssup, tramp?”
“Shit. What’s good wit’ you?” For some reason I don’t tell ’er I’m in Brooklyn; that I’m en route to see Juanita. I lie and tell ’er I’m out on a date. “Oh, shiiiiiit,” she snaps, soundin’ all amped ’n shit. “That’s wassup. I’m glad you finally are cummin’ to ya senses and goin’ out to get you some dick.”
“Whoa, slow down, cowgirl. It’s not that deep. I’m in ’n out; that’s it.”
“Whateva, ho. Stop neglectin’ that pussy of yours and let a nigga bust that dusty-ass hole open. Damn.”
“Bitch, please. Ya trick-ass does ’nough fuckin’ for the both of us. I ain’t beat to have my shit lookin’ like da inside of a garbage truck. No thank you, ma’am.” She cracks the hell up. “Look, ho, I’m out.”
