Succulent (Chocolate Flava 2)

I smiled. Yep, the damn best psychic in town. That’s me. “What’s your situation?”

“Girl, I’m going to kill that motherfucker!” she shrieked. “My stupid-ass husband. He said that he wanted a divorce but we still live in the same house. I thought after five years, we could make it work but I guess not.”

I felt a slight pull in my stomach as she spoke, her voice choking up. “Not only have I found out that he wanted to end our marriage, I discovered that he stole a couple of hundred dollars from my purse this morning. That was the money that I was gonna use to pay for you to do my hair.”

I felt bad for her telling me her story, but my stomach was still aching and it bothered me. I felt a curiously sinking feeling as she spoke on the phone. No, that can’t be right…something is not right, I thought.

“And, girl,” she continued, “he took the car while I was asleep this morning and his monkey ass used it all day! Then he had the nerve to come home and take a shower. Probably fucked some bitch! I confronted him about the money and he denied it. We’re the only ones who live in this damn house! I bet he spent it on some dirty heifer!

“That’s what I get for marrying a no-good, broke-ass boy! I pay for everything! He was a street hustler when I met him. Thank God for the prenup!”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear because she was yelling so loud. My stomach was still aching….

She finally calmed down. “Basically, that’s my situation, Aine. I didn’t call you because I was so upset by everything today. I know that we don’t know each other that well, but I feel comfortable talking to you about this because you’re psychic. So what I wanna know is, is my husband dating or has he fucked someone new already?”

I felt queasy. I am the best psychic in town. Nothing should get past me. A lump formed in my throat as I asked her, “What’s your husband’s name?”

“His punk ass is named Denver, girl,” Genie snarled.

Pain shot through my body as I dropped the receiver. I held my stomach and bent down from the pain just in time to see a tiny stream of crimson fluid trickle down my leg.

My period had started.

Fondling My Muse

Randy Walker

The week ended with my head in a daze, stories circling my brain. I could still feel a slight cramp in my hand from all of the homework assignments I’d struggled to complete over the week. I had known that the Black Writers’ Workshop would be exhausting when I applied several months ago. Like many others in attendance, I had felt the need to do something affirmative to prove to myself that I was in fact taking myself seriously as a writer. This was my chance to be around people and call myself a writer without being ridiculed. I wasn’t a computer programmer anymore. I was just someone who was working on his short stories, aiming at getting a book completed by the end of the year. So when I packed up my things for a week in New York, I had no idea that I would meet her, the muse who would get me through the week.

I first saw her during the opening-dinner meet and greet. She didn’t really stand out much either. She had a funky Afro, kind of like N’Bushe Wright’s do in Dead Presidents. Her Stevie Wonder T-shirt hung lazily from her body, and if it had not been for her shorts riding up those long, sculpted legs, it might’ve taken me a little longer to really notice her. She had a casual beauty like that of Sanaa Lathan, the kind of beauty that was subtle in drawing attention. I had always found that type of woman irresistible.

After introducing myself and learning that her name was Meredith, I began to keep an eye out for her during our workshop breaks and during the meals we ate at the university cafeteria. On the second day, while having lunch, I spotted her at a table with several of her classmates.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

She looked up at me and smiled. “No. It’s cool.”

I sat down diagonally from her, introducing myself to the two other women seated nearby. Since I was the only man at the table, the women quickly directed their attention toward me.

“So where are you from?” the woman named Rachelle asked.

“Mississippi,” I responded.

“Ooh, you probably had to escape slavery to get here,” said the one named Diamond.

“And I ain’t never goin’ back. Nah, sur. I’s likes my freedom!”

They laughed, but I hardly noticed anyone except Meredith. She had a sexiness that danced just beneath the surface, and at that moment, all I wanted to do was undress her, lay her down on her stomach, and plant kisses all along her chocolate, moon-shaped ass.

“You here for poetry or fiction?” Meredith asked.

“Fiction.”

“Really? Me, too. Whose your workshop teacher?”

“Jonathan Cadet.”

“Man, I was trying to get him for my class. I’m taking Cynthia Wordley. She’s great though.”