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She tilts her head, stares at me. “Are you protecting yourself?”
“Ma, on some real shit, I’m many things, but reckless ain’t one of ’em. I keep my pipe wrapped at all times. Well,”—I grin— “unless I’m gettin’ topped.”
She rolls her eyes. “Please, you better be wrappin’ that dick of yours up for that, too. The last thing you need is a baby, or catching some shit you can’t get rid of. Then again…maybe having a child might slow your ass down and make you more responsible. You know, force you to get a job, knowing you’d have someone depending on you.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll pass. The only thing havin’ a baby would do is make me miserable, especially knowin’ I’ma be stuck wit’ its mother in my ear for eighteen or more years. No thanks, boo. I’d rather kill myself.”
She sucks her teeth. “‘Boo,’ my ass. You’re a damn mess.”
I get up and kiss her on her forehead, then say, “Well, I’m your mess, beautiful woman.” I decide to tell her ’bout my fucked-up convo wit’ Ramona’s nutty ass. She takes it all in, then wants to know why I didn’t tell her from the rip. And I tell her ’cause I really didn’t wanna get into it wit’ her. She nods, asks me if there’s any truth to what she’s sayin’.
“Hell if I know. I mean, she could be pregnant. But it ain’t mine. That much I know for sure. I put my life on that. Ma, that bit…I mean, broad is crazy.”
She sighs. “I’m sure she’s no crazier than she already was when you decided to stick your dick in her.”
“Yeah, you gotta point,” I admit, chucklin’. “But, actually, I think she got worse once she climbed up on this Maplewood.”
She rolls her eyes, suckin’ her teeth. “Hmmph. I’m telling you, you and that dick of yours”—she shakes her head—“You really need to cut out all this ho-ing around you do. Nothing good is gonna come out of it. It’s only a matter of time before you find yourself lying up in a hospital bed, bandaged from feet to head.” —she snaps her fingers—“Just that much…from being dead…”
I burst out laughin’, peepin’ how she hit me wit’ a verse from that joint “A Thin Line between Love and Hate.” “You funny as hell, Ma, word up.”
“You can laugh if you want, but I’m being serious.”
“Ma, stop worryin’ ’bout me. I got this.”
“Okay, Mr. I Got This. You’ve been warned.” She sighs. “I wish you’d find yourself one, even two, nice girls to date. What the hell you need with a dozen or more women anyway?” I give her a blank look. “Besides for the obvious, you fool.”
“Other than for variety, nuthin’.”
She shakes her head. “You know what,”—she raises her hand, pausing—“I’m gonna leave it alone.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right, Ma. That’s what you always say.”
“I know. And as your mother, smart ass, I’m allowed to change my mind. But, this time I’m serious. You’re a grown man.”
My cell phone chirps, lettin’ me know someone sent me a text. “I’m glad you finally realize that,” I tease, smilin’ at her.
“Obviously, I realize a whole lot more than you do.”
“Ma, whatever happens, happens. I’m doin’ me. Now, tell me. Why’d you ask Pops ’bout fish?” My phone chirps again. I ignore it, keepin’ my eyes on her.
“Ask him yourself,” she answers, gettin’ up from the table. She walks over to the sink and starts washin’ dishes.
I raise my brow. “Wait a minute, are you tryna say Pops got some other chick knocked up while ya’ll were together?” She doesn’t respond. I walk over to her, lean up against the counter.
“Let him be the one to tell you.” I stare at her. Watch as she washes and rinses the dishes, then move about the kitchen puttin’ away food.
“So you just gonna leave me hangin’?”
She stops what she’s doin’ and looks at me, movin’ a strand of hair from her face. “Let me say this: Some women can be some real crafty bitches.” I keep from smilin’, surprised she’s referrin’ to women as bitches since she’s always comin’ at my neck for usin’ the word. “Yes, I said it: bitches. And a desperate bitch will stop at nothing to get her claws in what she can’t have, including…” she pauses, narrowin’ her left eye and raisin’ a brow, “…another woman’s husband.”
I blink, take in what she’s said, then it becomes clear. “Wow,” is the only thing I say.
“Yeah, ‘wow’ is right.” The doorbell rings. I glance up at the wooden wall clock: 7:43 P.M. “Speaking of which, that’s him now,” she announces, wipin’ the table. “Go open the door.”
“Aiight.” My cell chirps, again, as I’m goin’ toward the front door. I finally pull it from off my waist. It’s Tamera’s ass. You still on ya bullshit?
The doorbell rings again as I text back. Nah. What’s good? I open the door. “What’s good, playboy?” I tease, givin’ Pops a pound. Although I wanna feel some kinda way ’bout what Moms insinuated, I don’t. That shit was between him and her. But I ain’t gonna front. A muhfucka still wants the rundown on shit.
