Distractions (D. SWING)

59

Olive Hue Too

A blue tint in my vision, my glasses rest on the brim of my nose as I turn the key in the locked elevator solely made to travel to my floor. The penthouse is accessible from the other elevator with the same key but this one was made for the VIP's only. Stepping in, I feel my insides crying out for food after me being laser focused on the stacking of harmonic vocals on a track for the last four hours comes back to haunt me. Three hours before that, the fine prints of a distribution offer held my focus. The future of that specific deal is getting dimmer by the second. I'm not saying it has to be perfect but it does have to be perfect. I got some of the best of the best talent underneath my hands and they got to be handled right.

A ding brings my attention to the long hallway that takes me to my front door. It's a little like Nel's old spot but with some more protection. This building is bougie. Locks and codes are on everything. I'm cool with that because it makes it easier to malfunction in peace with the exception of having to stop what you're doing to let your niggas in. I never had a penthouse until now. My spot in Queens was the closest to this but still wasn't this. I like mansions, personally, you know what I'm sayin'? I like big houses and privacy but I had to meet my baby halfway. The closest I can get besides this is Nel's other spot, like I just said. It's a little bougie but it's no keys to get to her floor. All you got to do is unlock the door. What I do like about it is the lounge area outside of it. It don't touch our crib now though.

I hit the jackpot pulling off this fly ass shit.

My keys are stuffed back in my pocket once the door is opened. I don't trip off of locking it behind me since the both of us are already home, I can tell by the sound of the television being on in the living-room, until my natural developed paranoia causes me to double back and flip the locks. I draw myself around the corner, coming to see the sight of an occupied Nel. Her body is sprawled out along the couch, legs crossed at the ankles as she stares at the television, sipping a milkshake through a straw with two swirls in its route to her red lips. A Walgreens bag of candy rests in her lap.

The thing about Nel that really brings us together is that she eats like she's a lil' nigga in the sixth grade. Candy, ice cream, cheeseburgers, alla' that. It'll catch up to her one day but it just ain't happened yet and in the mean time, she's still hell bent on eating pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on certain days. I never tripped because I'm the same way. I can't cook and I got a high metabolism. I drink water and eat whatever I want. I'm gone be a slim nigga all my life. I can tell because my father still is. Nel cooks fo'sho and she eats other shit but if it wasn't for her diligence to eat real food, we'd been have won the McDonald's Monopoly joint by now.

Nel notices me. Her eyes still focused on the daytime struggles of Erica Kane, she holds her hand out for me to approach her while refusing to blink at the soap opera playing on our big screen tv. Silently greeting my girlfriend, I lean down to kiss her cheek. I catch a glimpse of the multiple bags of skittles she's bought as I pull away. "Lemme' get one, baby." I say, still leaning over her, peering into her lap to see if she bought anything else I want.

As the final scene of her show takes place, Nel reaches into the bag and pulls out a bag of skittles. "Huh," she says as she offers them. The cliff hangers on her soap always have her all the way caught up in the tv. She just started watching them a few months ago but she already hooked.

"Thank you." I step back, walking closer to the front door once I remember to remove my shoes before my girl gets to nagging. The show must've been over now because I hear her flick channels. Sounds of a Wayans Bros. rerun playing on the tv pulls me back in. I lift her feet and set them in my lap, my left hand draping over her ankles. "How was your audition?" I tear my skittles open with my teeth, spitting the paper the floor. The narrowed stare from my girlfriend causes me to pick the stray piece wrapper back up.