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“On her way home,” I tell her, looping my arm through hers and helping her out of the restaurant. She gives me a confused look. “Don’t even ask. I’m so over her ass right now.”
Paris
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A week after brunch with our mother, I’m downstairs in the den with my laptop propped up on my lap catching up on season one of The Good Wife online, anxiously awaiting season two, when Persia storms through the room disrupting my moment. I’m still annoyed with her for how she acted, but she’s not fazed. Persia only cares about what Persia cares about. Herself, first; Porsha and me, second; and
President Obama, third.
She plops down next to me. “I’m so sick of these tea-bagging motherfuckers fucking with Obama. Girl, they need to leave that man alone and let him do his damn job.”
I press PAUSE on the screen, and look up from my PC, shaking my head. The way Persia carries on anytime someone says anything negative about Obama, or does anything to undermine him, you’d think she was related to him. She takes the shit way too personal, like it’s an attack on her. “Who’s fucking with your boy now?”
“Who else, them snake-ass Republicans! They make me fucking sick. They’ve been fucking with him from day one, and the shit’s getting old. Hating-asses. They’re a bunch of bigots and shady motherfuckers.” She shakes her head. “I swear. This is one fucked-up country. It’s no wonder motherfuckers laugh at us. Instead of trying to work as one government, they’d rather tear us down just to be fucking spiteful.”
Ohmygod! All I wanna do is watch the rest of The Good Wife. Not get into a long, drawn-out debate with her ass. I’m so not in the mood for this. Not tonight.
She leans forward, clutching her stomach. “Ohmygod, I’m gonna be sick. If the Republicans end up back in office, they’re gonna fuck us over worse than they already have.” h
I laugh. “Girl, hopefully that’ll never happen. “But to be on the safe side, we all better be out at them polls to ensure it doesn’t. Obama has been catching heat from day one. Everything going wrong in this country is his fault. They fail to see the shit that he’s already done since being in office. But, it’s not enough. No matter what that man does, there’s always going to be someone pointing a finger at him, blaming him for something. As long as he’s President, he’ll always be under the microscope.”
She frowns. “Why? Because he’s black?”
“No. Because he’s a man who isn’t taking sides. For him it isn’t simply a black thing, or a white thing. It’s a people thing. And he’s about holding everyone accountable, particularly those in politics and other positions of power.”
She grunts. “Mmmph. And you mean to tell me that nothing them haters put him through has anything to do with the fact that he’s black?”
I shake my head. “No. Not all of it.”
“Yeah, right,” she replies indignantly. “You and I both know it’s all about race. So don’t even try to sugarcoat it. This is a racist country, boo. It’s what it was built on. And you know it.”
Porsha walks in. “What are y’all in here talking about?”
“President Obama, who else?” I tell her, shaking my head.
She backs out of the room. “Oh, no thank you. I want no part of this conversation. Call me when y’all are done.”
I laugh. “Girl, take me with you.”
“Mmmph, whatever,” Persia snorts at the both of us.
“Where are you going?”
“To fix me a damn drink,” she huffs over her shoulder, switching her way out the door. “Talking about this shit has got me hot.”
I laugh, pressing the PLAY button and resuming my show. “Well, you might as well fix me one, too, ’cause listening to you is gonna give me the shits if I don’t have one.”
She laughs. “Well, get over it. I’ll be right back with it.”
“And don’t come back in here with any more of that Obama mess. I don’t wanna end up going to bed with a damn headache. I want to catch up on my show, have a drink, and take it down for the night, peacefully.”
She flicks her wrist at me. “Whatever.”
The doorbell rings. I glance at the time on the lower right corner of my laptop. 8:24 P.M. I wonder who’s coming here this time of night. And I know we’re not planning on fucking anyone tonight. I go back to watching the rest of the show without giving it another thought.
Fifteen minutes later, Porsha comes waltzing back into the room, saying, “Girl, look what the wind blew in.” She’s carrying a tray with a pitcher of white sangria and four wineglasses on it. I glance up to see what she’s talking about.
“Heeeeeeeeeey, Diva,” Felecia says, spreading her arms wide open as she struts in the room. I’m surprised to see her. It’s taken her almost two months to finally get over here so we can get the gossip.
