Page 2 of Body Language

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I opened a bill tucked in her drawer.

Final notice. Due last week.

When I asked Mama what happened, she said:

“I had to trade somethin’ to get somethin’. That’s grown folks' business.”

She said it like it was logical. Like it made sense.

Like she hadn’t chosen a high over heat.

So I rocked Huxley that night in the dark, holding him tight, while I cried into his onesie and whispered:

“I got you. I got us. I swear.”

That was the day I stopped being a kid.

That was the day I became my mother’s keeper.

My brother’s mother.

And my own damn savior.

2

Niveah

They always say a woman’s body is her biggest weapon.

Nah.

Mine is my mouth.

And not in the way men fantasize about in group chats with their homeboys who’d fold over a wink and a lipgloss smirk.

I’m talkin’ conversation, strategy, and vibe.

That influence you lay down with words so soft, he doesn't even feel it lifting his pockets.

It’s 2:13 p.m. on a Tuesday.

I was on an island where the sun touched my skin like it’s in love with me.

My hair was still damp from the ocean and the man I came with had just left to get me another frozen drink with two cherries like I asked.

And while his absence is temporary, the other man on my phone was a permanent confusion.

His voice was in my ear. Deep. Low. That fake-deep where you can tell he’s never been heard, just tolerated.

And that’s where I slide in.

“Are you close with your mom?” I asked.

He paused. That kind of pause men do when they’re not used to being asked real shit unless it’s a trap.

Then he said, “She tried. But she was always tired.”

Mmm. There it is.

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