Page 6

The energy shifts in an instant. I break away from her, walking over to the table to take a seat. In a reactive haste, Morgan stops stirring the pot of grits, turning to direct full attention to me. I can feel her eyes burning a hole through me from across the kitchen. The heat of shame blankets my body. She says so much, saying so little.

“Um, Rayne? As in your good for nothing ass brother, Rayne?” “The one and only.”

“Aw fuck. What’s that nigga done now?”

“I honestly don’t know, bae. With that nigga Rayne, it could be anything. He texted me this morning saying he needs to meet with me. Hampton, no less. I told him I’d be there in the next hour.”

“Hampton? Why Hampton? That’s damn near Grim Reaper Gardens,” she quickly switches expression, as if a lightbulb suddenly went off, “Wait, wait. Doesn’t his little whatever the fuck live over there? The girl who isn’t his girl but somehow he still decided to shack up with?”

Yeah, that’s a great way to describe her. The girl who isn’t his girl. That seems to be everybody he kicks it with. See, Rayne is also what I refer to as a serial squatter. The type of guy who will rub up next to any woman, either desperate, horny or alone enough to fall victim to his advances. Usually single mothers. Quicker than it takes Stone Cold Steve Austin to get a haircut, he’s moved in. Wasting hours on their couch, eating their kids' fruit snacks and killing the little money he does have on failed parlays. At least until they grow tired enough of his shit to kick him out.

This latest one’s name is Marissa. A pretty woman. But also the perfect example of the previously described. Twenty seven, sexually dehydrated and dickmatized by a complete dumbass. All while trying to raise a two year old son that’s probably confused as to why his latest uncle spends more time at the house than he does.

I sip my coffee in between thinking over his stupidity, “Yeah, I think so.”

Morgan’s scooping grits onto my plate, shaking her in disappointment, “I swear that boy will stick his dick in a cactus if he thought the orgasm would be worth it. Lord, fix it.”

“Well, if the Lord doesn’t,” I sip my coffee again, “I will.”

She joins me at the table, sitting to my right. Everything looks so perfect. Not that it shocks me. My baby is still a fuckin’ magician in the kitchen. Everything she makes tastes like love on a plate. It shows how much cooking still means to her. Hence why her lounge getting off the ground was a main priority to me. Her passion for the project told me everything. She even put off Culinary School for the time being to focus solely on it. That’s the thing about my wife. She

could easily take it easy on herself. Go back to school, read her books, and relax. Hell, that’s what I wanted her to do.

She’s a lot like me. Her ambition is creamer to her latte. There’s always another goal running through her mind. Another plan to make money burning a hole in her pocket. She wanted this. Bad. And I knew she’d go crazy with it when given the chance. I’ll never hesitate to support. Her dreams matter to me. When she’s happy, I’m even happier.

“Bae, just be careful over there,” she says while shaking pepper onto her grits, “Your brother is a damn mess.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“And remember, he may be blood. But blood can get infected. You can only help so much.”

Food for thought. We cut the appetite-killing discourse to focus on the actual meal. Most times we eat together with R&B playing and a blunt right after. It’s where we have our version of couples counseling, just without the counselor. We discuss life. Our businesses. Plans for the future. Us. What we can improve. What we’re doing right. The sex. The threesomes…kids.

That’s where we often get stuck. She’s starting to want them. I’m still enjoying life as it is.

It’s not that I don’t want kids. Fuck yeah I do. It’s what I’ve desired since I got to an age to know babies didn’t come from storks. My parents are great examples of why childhood is nothing to fear when you’re born to lead. I’ve even thought of names. If it’s a boy, I thought of Shakur.

After my favorite hip hop artist of all time. For a girl, maybe Royalty. What she’s guaranteed to always be treated like.

I just don’t want to feel like I’m rushing it. Especially with business moving how it is. There doesn’t seem to be a time to slow down for a child. A hectic life wouldn’t seem fair to the child or us for that matter. At the same time, if Morgan feels ready, it’s something to keep on the table. It’s her body. Who the fuck am I, as a man, to tell a woman how to use her body? Or when to use it? Things are changing. Slowly but surely. Another reason to increase wealth for the future. Our legacy depends on it.

“I was going to run to the grocery store to take a load off you,” I’m talking with a mouthful, chowing down on a waffle, “Guess that’ll have to wait until after this shit. And then I'll check on the cafe.”

“Nope,” she argues, instantly shutting that down, “Don’t fuck up your routine any more than you already have. Focus on your day, bae. Big mama’s got it. Besides, you know I love going to Metro Market. Their wine selection is heavenly.”

She glows like the moon as words leave those sexy lips. Wine is definitely another one of my baby’s weaknesses. Much to the point that during Christmas time, all she really wanted was a big bottle of Moscato. I guess there shouldn’t be any surprise to her response. Time means more to Morgan since opening her lounge. She opens around six in the evening every Thursday through Sunday. Though she’s usually there an hour before to prepare for whatever. Meaning any other needed tasks get handled during the mid-day. Unless she’s packed with paperwork. Even then, I always suggest she makes room for herself too. A necessity with how hard she grinds.

“I’ll just stop over that way after cleaning up,” she continues, shrugging through a swallowing of grits, “No biggie. No smalls. We’re a team here, baby.”

Her corniness, as always, humors me.

“And a damn good one,” I add in, syrup-covered fork pointed her way, “Well, aight then. I’ll let you have it. Just take that damn gun with you.”

“Well, of course I will. I can’t miss the opportunity to turn a nigga into Provolone Cheese? Ain’t that what y’all say?”

I’m laughing hard as hell.

“Swiss cheese, baby. Turn a nigga into Swiss cheese.”