“I'm sorry, Marcus.”
“Sorry don't get it done. Not this time, Randa. I don't know why we're even talking about this.”
“Because we never have talked about this. This is the conversation we should have had a year ago. But you ran off with some woman. You were probably sleeping with her all along.”
“For your information I never slept with Yvonne.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
“I don't give a fuck what you believe.”
“Are you two still together?”
“No were not still together, she's dead.”
“She didn't die of aids, did she?”
“No, she was murdered.”
“Why?”
“None of your damn business.”
“All right, all right, no need to bite my head off,” Randa said and then she took a deep breath. “Marcus.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“You said that.”
“Do you still love me?”
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes a difference to me.”
Marcus still had no answer.
“Marcus as much as we meant to each othe
r, after all the things we shared together, the least you could do is answer my question. Can you honestly say that you don't still love me?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Marcus got up from his seat and walked to the bar without answering.
“Marcus, are you still there?”
He poured himself a glass of Hennessy and shot it down, before pouring another one and returning to his seat. “I'm still here,” Marcus said and lit a Kool.
“You never did answer my question.”
“What question was that?”
“Can you honestly say that you don't still love me?”