their car horn caused her to stop and look over her shoulder. A white Cadillac did a slow roll up the street as its driver, a light-skinned dude with cornrows, leaned out the window showing off a mouthful of gold grills.
Naeema glanced down at the sports bra and leggingsthat served no real purpose in covering her. She met his leer and he finally faced forward with a shake of his head meant to compliment her and then accelerated forward. She wasnât embarrassed by her body or the attention. She was well aware she had the kind of body selfies and bathroom pics on Instagram were made for. First J-Lo and then Beyoncé made fat asses popular for mainstream America but brothas, Latinos, and country white boys been down.
She shifted her eyes over to the apartment building where Mya lived. Both the porch and the window were empty. Last night, in between dodging a hundred and one questions from the nosy teen, Naeema had quizzed her to push forward memories of the burglar. She had felt relief and guilt after finally urging her back across the street to her own place. The relief? Mya talked too damn much and asked way too many questions. The guilt? She wasnât blind to the sadness the girl carried. It was there in her eyes, in the way she carried herself, and in the way she so instantly clung to Naeema.
In her life she knew that kind of sadness her damn self all too well.
With one last look she turned her head and continued up the stairs. She opened the metal mailbox attached to the brick wall and removed her mail.
âShit,â Naeema swore as she reached for the doorknob. Her keys and her cell phone were back at the gym.
So busy trying to fuck Tank that I fucked myself.
She hit her knuckles against the door.
Knock-knock.
She shook her head, knowing it was a complete waste of time. Sarge would never hear her down in the basementand the doorbell was just one of a gazillion things on her list to have repaired.
Shit.
Naeema rattled the keys in her hand as she jogged back down the stairs with her mind set on knocking on the back door until Jesus carried her home or Sarge was able to hear her over his loud television playing in the basement. She was halfway down the stairs when she turned the keys over in her hand and looked at them.
How could I forget?
She smiled as she recalled a clear memory of her pushing the silver key across the kitchen table with the pointed tip of her acrylic nail to Tank sitting next to her as they ate breakfast before heading out to work. He had eyed her in surprise before nodding and then leaning over to press a kiss to the back of her neck. Her invite. His acceptance. Their compromise to his request for them to live together again.
The concession didnât last very long.
But there, nestled between the keys to his Harley Davidson and the Sprinter were three house keys. She turned and headed back up the steps to the front door, trying first one key and then another.
Click.
The relief felt good as she turned the knob and lifted the door before pushing it open with a nudge from her bare shoulder. Going from the outdoors inside offered her body no relief. Even the house seemed to sweat, letting off the smell of old wood. The heat pressed back against her body as she walked through it to turn on the portable air-conditioning unit. The battle between a lower light bill and coming home to a cool house was nonstop.
She flipped through the stack of envelopes as she stayed posted up in front of the AC. âThe fuck?â she said, holding up a bright red envelope addressed to Ezra Manigault.
She had no idea who or what Ezra was.
Setting what looked to be an envelope containing a card onto the mantelpiece, Naeema continued shuffling through the bills and mailers as she crossed the scuffed, faded hardwood floor to the kitchen. Pushing the door opened she sat the stack on the counter along with Tankâs keys. The door leading down into the basement was slightly ajar.
Naeema glanced down at the sports bra and leggingsthat served no real purpose in covering her. She met his leer and he finally faced forward with a shake of his head meant to compliment her and then accelerated forward. She wasnât embarrassed by her body or the attention. She was well aware she had the kind of body selfies and bathroom pics on Instagram were made for. First J-Lo and then Beyoncé made fat asses popular for mainstream America but brothas, Latinos, and country white boys been down.
She shifted her eyes over to the apartment building where Mya lived. Both the porch and the window were empty. Last night, in between dodging a hundred and one questions from the nosy teen, Naeema had quizzed her to push forward memories of the burglar. She had felt relief and guilt after finally urging her back across the street to her own place. The relief? Mya talked too damn much and asked way too many questions. The guilt? She wasnât blind to the sadness the girl carried. It was there in her eyes, in the way she carried herself, and in the way she so instantly clung to Naeema.
In her life she knew that kind of sadness her damn self all too well.
With one last look she turned her head and continued up the stairs. She opened the metal mailbox attached to the brick wall and removed her mail.
âShit,â Naeema swore as she reached for the doorknob. Her keys and her cell phone were back at the gym.
So busy trying to fuck Tank that I fucked myself.
She hit her knuckles against the door.
Knock-knock.
She shook her head, knowing it was a complete waste of time. Sarge would never hear her down in the basementand the doorbell was just one of a gazillion things on her list to have repaired.
Shit.
Naeema rattled the keys in her hand as she jogged back down the stairs with her mind set on knocking on the back door until Jesus carried her home or Sarge was able to hear her over his loud television playing in the basement. She was halfway down the stairs when she turned the keys over in her hand and looked at them.
How could I forget?
She smiled as she recalled a clear memory of her pushing the silver key across the kitchen table with the pointed tip of her acrylic nail to Tank sitting next to her as they ate breakfast before heading out to work. He had eyed her in surprise before nodding and then leaning over to press a kiss to the back of her neck. Her invite. His acceptance. Their compromise to his request for them to live together again.
The concession didnât last very long.
But there, nestled between the keys to his Harley Davidson and the Sprinter were three house keys. She turned and headed back up the steps to the front door, trying first one key and then another.
Click.
The relief felt good as she turned the knob and lifted the door before pushing it open with a nudge from her bare shoulder. Going from the outdoors inside offered her body no relief. Even the house seemed to sweat, letting off the smell of old wood. The heat pressed back against her body as she walked through it to turn on the portable air-conditioning unit. The battle between a lower light bill and coming home to a cool house was nonstop.
She flipped through the stack of envelopes as she stayed posted up in front of the AC. âThe fuck?â she said, holding up a bright red envelope addressed to Ezra Manigault.
She had no idea who or what Ezra was.
Setting what looked to be an envelope containing a card onto the mantelpiece, Naeema continued shuffling through the bills and mailers as she crossed the scuffed, faded hardwood floor to the kitchen. Pushing the door opened she sat the stack on the counter along with Tankâs keys. The door leading down into the basement was slightly ajar.
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