Shani, you’re an asshole, lol.
This is a continuation of this
I’ve always thanked God for having more male friends than chicks because shit like this that First Love just tried to pull just doesn’t fool me.
At this point I weigh my options…
So when I get to First Love’s place (lol!), he opens his door for me, and I see that he’s shirtless and in pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. I CRACK THE FUCK UP. Does he think this is a movie or something?!?! He makes me a drink and we lounge across the couches in his living room, talking life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The drink is perfect, his place is gorgeous, the view is fabulous, but seriously, I was gonna give it up before he started trying too hard.
*sigh* Niggas just do TOO MUCH sometimes, don’t they?
After awhile, I’m over the slow steps to where we both know this is going. I let him know I should get going so I can drive back across town because I’ve gotta early morning hair appointment… right down the street from his place.
“Why don’t you just crash here?”
We retire to the bedroom, him behind me conspicuously watching my ass in my jeans, trying to be inconspicuous about it. On the inside, I’m shaking my head.
I jump in the shower to wash club from my skin. His soap is the same, I notice. And then I start to notice other things…
… the hairpins on his counter
… two toothbrushes in the holder by the sink
… two loofahs in the shower, one gray, one… lavender
I open the shower door. You know how, especially if you have long hair, when you shower with your hair down sometimes the hair will lift up onto the ceiling and walls? I look above me. Sure enough, there’s long brownish hair plastered to the walls and ceiling above my head. I crack up to myself. For someone “single” he sure has alot of indicators that he isn’t here alone too often. He never really was all that good at running the game his friends were so adept at.
“Yo!” I yell into the adjoining bedroom. He comes to the door. “Next time you have someone else over, hide the evidence,” I say throwing the lavender ball in his direction. “If it was anyone other than me, she might actually care.”
He looks struck for a minute. He starts to stutter out an excuse and I silence him with my hand. “Bring me something to sleep in.” I turn on the water and get in.
Niggas will be niggas, won’t they?
He brings me a tshirt of his to sleep in
Just a tshirt.
We crawl into bed and somehow wind up talking. Alot. Like, alot alot. Somehow the conversation loops around to our relationship. I tread softly and carefully, hoping to avoid the minefields.
“We were together for a long time.”
“Yep,” I reply.
“Whenever I tell anyone how long we were together, they can’t believe it.”
“Yeah me too.”
“It was good with us, right?” Shit.
“Yeah,” careful now, “it was. We WERE good together. Back THEN.” Emphasis on all things past tense.
“Yeah. I think about it. I think about it alot actually.”
We’re both silent, letting the implication of that hang high in the vaulted ceilings.
It’s about this time that I roll over and scoot right up under him, him spooning me, my ass pressed into his pelvis, his torso running the length of my back, his arms underneath me. He kisses the back of my neck.
An hour later we’ve broken the bed so he breaks out his Playskool My First Toolset to screw the frame back together. I wanna clown him for the fact that my tool box makes his look like a skinny crackwhore standing next to a supermodel but it’s 5am and I’m sleepy and a lil sore. We start putting the bed back together.
“You know,” I say, “most people cuddle or talk after sex.”
“The way I remember it you weren’t too big on cuddling.”
I yawn. “Real talk.”
“Besides,” he says laughing, “lets be different.” We work a little longer in blissful silence. My hands are working, but my mind is comatose.
“Not too many women would help a man put a bed back together after sex.”
“I’m not too many women. Besides, I helped break it.”
“That’s some ride or die chick shit right there.”
“Do I get my ride or die bitch merit badge now? I’ve been working on it.” He laughs at me.
“Yeah, you got that.” *pause* “You always were that ride or die type of chick.” I look up from the screwdriver in hand expecting to catch his eyes on my exposed thighs straddling the thick wooden frame of his bed. Instead, I find him looking at me.
Oh, come ON.
“I know, I know,” I say, my eyes falling back to the frame, “they don’t make ’em like me anymore.”
“They sure don’t.”
Once the bed is fixed, we crawl back in under the down comforter. He reaches out for me and I simultaneously shift away. I feel him laying there is the darkness, trying to decide if he should hold me or just go to sleep.
I roll over on my side, my back to him.
I was never too big on cuddling.