I gasp with furrowed brows. “And what’s the difference between the two?”
“Hart is pee your pants funny and Davidson is just silly...desperate for a laugh funny,” he informs and we both laugh.
I’m on my back wrapped in expensive Egyptian cotton sheets that feels delightful against my skin. The fire is burning calmly and it creates a romantic glow in the room.
“I’m thirsty. You want something to drink...wine...brandy?” Azmir offers as he wraps his waist in sheets, to my dismay, and heads into the kitchen.
“Juice will be fine. I’m thirsty myself. You’ve had me perspiring since we walked through the door! I need to rehydrate. I think the nightcap should’ve come before the smashing,” I playfully chastised.
With his eyebrows narrowed and eyes squinted he quips, “I’m sorry. I didn’t get the impression I was imposing.” Then he takes a few moments to consider what I’ve said before admitting, “Okay, so maybe you didn’t have a choice in the matter,” with a bashful smirk.
Azmir comes back with tall glasses of juice for the both of us and hands me mine.
“In all seriousness, are you okay with my moms staying at your place?” Azmir asks. Yazmine has been at my place since the day after the Brian Thompson fiasco. I didn’t fight with him as he made the call after leaving the debriefing with Bacote & Taylor Public Relations Team. I knew better than to fight with him.
“Oh, yeah. At least the place isn’t there just decaying. I mean, that week or so that I was there was rough for the first few days. I tried to make myself comfortable, but there was still no life there. I think it’s a great idea. She seems to be comfortable. I saw she’s put up photos on the walls in the living room already.”
“She just came off a twenty-plus stint and it’s like she was in a time warp. The décor in there is so Brooklyn 1970s,” Azmir says ruefully. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well if she wants, I can get her a new mattress. It’s weird having her on the same one I’ve smashed her beloved son on,” I said in jest as Azmir’s phone goes off. This time it’s his iPhone. As soon as he answers it, his Blackberry goes off. Because it’s so late, I wonder who’s calling.
“Peace-peace,” he greets in his thick Brooklyn accent. It always amazes me how thick that New York twang was in so many of his pronunciations considering he’s lived in Chicago and L.A. since there. I was actually turned on by it. Even Jersey girls can’t get enough of New York men.
“Where?” Azmir roars into the phone as he gathers his sheet around his naked waist again and goes into his study in search of something. I sit up alarmed. Here we go again. I’d just forgotten about the mean and cold Azmir that I’d gotten a glimpse of in Cobalt earlier, now he’s returned.
He comes back into the living room with his laptop. “What’s the address again?” he growls into the phone. Then he types on the keyboard. After a few seconds, he says, “Yes, she’s here. Let me holla at her and get back to you. Yeah.” He hits a button before tossing the phone to the other side of the sofa.
I sit on the floor in front of the fire, in silence as he views whatever’s on the laptop. I think I hear Caribbean music, but why would he be listening to anything related to that? It ends and he places the laptop on the glass coffee table and snaps, “What the fuck is this, Rayna?”
~~~~~~~~~~
Rayna