Page 32 of Body Language
“I’m a lot of things,” I said, licking fruit from my drink off my thumb like I wasn’t already being disrespectful on purpose. “You just getting to know the top layer.”
“Oh yeah?” He leaned in. “What’s under that?”
I took another sip. “Therapy. Childhood trauma. And a mouth that’s gotten me into and out of some crazy shit.”
He laughed. The food came out and we both damn near moaned when the plates hit the table. We started eating, talking about everything and nothing at all. Like two kids skipping school, high off life and each other.
He asked what my dream job was.
“I wanna open a dance studio,” I said with my mouth full. “Not just pole, either. Ballet, jazz, hip hop, heels—all of it. A space for girls who need an outlet, not judgment. I want it to feel like freedom when you walk in.”
That made him look at me different. Like he saw me in a light nobody else had even flipped on yet.
He leaned back, smiling. “That’s dope as fuck. Pretty face and mind to match it.”
That’s when I started blushing and talking more shit.
“You got all these compliments lined up like you practice them in the mirror.”
“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “Wanna see the mirror?”
I gasped and grabbed my mimosa. “See, and here I was thinking you were respectful.”
He winked. “I am. Unless you want otherwise.”
One more sip and I was gon’ be sitting on the man’s lap.
“Okay, random,” I said, biting into my waffle. “If you could be any animal, what would you be?”
He wiped syrup from his lip, thinking. “A panther. Smooth but deadly when needed. What about you?”
“A raccoon.”
He blinked. “Wait, what the fuck?”
I grinned. “Because they be minding their business until they’re not. They’re nocturnal like me, always got a snack in hand, and survive in chaos with a full face mask on.”
He laughed so hard he dropped his fork. He leaned across the table again, his eyes locking on mine like he could see straight through the sass and right into the softness.
“So, what would it take for me to get your real name?” he asked, voice low and smooth like butter melting on the edge of a stack of pancakes.
“Just keep making me laugh like this. And don’t be weird.”
He raised his glass to toast. “To not being weird.”
I clinked mine against his. “And not fucking this up.”
“You know what,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Come ride with me.”
I damn near choked on my drink. “Ride where?”
“Nowhere crazy. Just… ride with me. Get some fresh air and chill.”
I squinted, setting my glass down slow. “Nigga… you could be a whole serial killer. You think Ima just hop in your car like this ain’t how those missing documentaries start?”
He smirked, unbothered. “If I was a serial killer, you’d be the last one I killed.”
I gasped. “Excuse me?!”
