Page 51 of Rome: The Ballerina

“When she’s ready, you know I will create a plan for her; prepare her meals if she feels like it’s too much.”

“I might take you up on that offer much sooner than later.”

“I’d like that.”

“Look what the hell the cat done shitted out,” my father belted.

His blunt nature had helped me grow tough skin quicker than most children. I removed the wrap from the bag and pulled out the trashcan to toss the paper.

“I was thinking the same thing when I heard your voice. You made it out of the liter box, again, huh?”

“That dust can’t hold a player down. Don’t act brand new.” He chuckled. “I’m too slick for that shit. You know what’s up with me.”

“I don’t know nothing. Keep moving your hips like that and you’re going to need a replacement. You know them long limbs flimsy as a paper plate. You sneeze and three bones are fractured. Automatically.”

“You have these same limbs. Just wait until you get this age, nigga. You better hope you can move like this,” he teased, sliding from one side to the other as if he was doing the electric slide.

“I can’t believe you married this man,” I said, turning to my mother with one side of my lip turned upward.

“And fucked ‘em and had your big head ass,” he added.

“Pops– chill.”

“You chill, nigga. Soft ass light-skinned motherfuckers always whining. Pops chill. Chill out. All that bitching.”

My mother and I matched each other’s gaze. Chill wasn’t in my father’s vocabulary. I couldn’t help the chortle that fell from my mouth. I massaged my forehead with my index and thumb.

“You finished yet? Light-skin?”

“Nigga, I’m brown. There’s a difference.”

“Is there? Because last time I checked, your skin is much more fair than mine.”

“But, my heart ain’t.”

Chuckling, I pointed in his direction. “Is your husband serious right now?”

“Dead motherfucking serious, young buck.”

“Can’t be. Your last name is De Bacco. Your mother is Italian. Your father is Italian and African American. Your hair is sandy. Your eyes are hazel. The hair on your balls aren’t even dark brown.”

“All y’all asses is gay now. Worried about the next man’s balls. Wouldn’t know good pussy if it slapped you across the face.”

“Elio–please.”

“I rest my case.”

“You never had one, Saint.”

“Your name is Elio!Elio. You have no grounds here.”

“Fuck you,” he spat, giving up the debate that I was still baffled by.

Laughter made my belly cave.

“This man is insufferable.”

“Imagine marrying him,” my mother groaned.

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