Sister, Sister by Eric Jerome Dickey

Author:Eric Jerome Dickey
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Book

28 / INDA

“I had just about given up on you.”

“I’m surprised you’re still out here,” I said, then made like I couldn’t remember his name, just to throw conversation back in his court. “Michael, right?”

“Right,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Sooo.” I played him off then adjusted my leather jacket and took a seat in his jasmine-colored director’s chair. He sat facing me in a scarlet chair that was a little older, faded. “I still get my freebie or has the offer expired?”

He put a place marker that had a picture of Robin Givens covering her bare chest in his paperback book and dropped it into his dirty off-white bag of supplies. “Still good.”

“Just don’t make my head too big. Make my bob a little longer.”

He laughed. “You want to do it?”

“Nope. I’ll let you do it.”

Before I knew it, I had found myself strolling out of the club to catch a breath of fresh air. Chiquita had moved on with her dancing groove. She tried to break free and muscle her way through the too-crowded room, but before she could ever make it back to the table, she was drafted back out for dance after dance. It was a bit too packed for the kid, so I was fanning myself and turning down dance after dance. Brown was walking around with a soda in hand, booty watching and on the prowl. So I decided to have the waitress give Chiquita a note that I was stepping out for some fresh air that hadn’t been breathed on by everybody and their momma. I know it was too chilly out, because my nipples told me, so I grabbed my jacket out of the car and went for a solo starlit, moonlight stroll down the boardwalk of broken dreams to cool off and air out. Even though it was cold, I still loved the light breeze. The salty Long Beach crispy fresh ocean air was much more pleasant than the everlasting cow-dung aroma of a culturally dehydrated Chino.

I went to the phone next to the restored carousel and tried to call Wiley. He wasn’t home, but I left a message anyway. He was probably out on a personal ad date. Which was better than sitting home on a beautiful night. I saw some of the gift and T-shirt shops were just closing up, the smell of cotton candy wafted over and made my stomach growl, reminding me that all I had eaten was a damn salad, so I hurried down and bought a couple of candy bars. Then I saw Michael was still sitting out on the more well lit side of the docks, bundled up in his hooded jacket with a scarf around his neck looking like a black Eskimo, by himself under one of the streetlights, reading one of those detective-mystery novels by the brotha Walter Mosley. Which reminded me of Red’s Terry McMillan novel that I still hadn’t finished as of yet. I like a brotha who reads. Especially a brotha who reads something written by a brotha who writes.

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