THE FLOW

Issue #010

Nothing works. No matter how many candles I light, coffees I drinks, cigarettes I smoke after my relapse... Nothing works. My nerves are frazzled beyond belief.

This is it.

Thumbtacked to the cork board next to my calendar is the final piece of motivation that pushed me to quit my job two weeks ago. My name is beautifully transcribed across the white envelope in bright blue ink. Inside, on the envelope's seal flap is a short note. It's short and sweet.

You have the brains, the heart, and now the money.
I can't give you the courage. Find it.

— The Wiz

The check is worth $100,000 American dollars and meant to be anonymous as only a routing number is presented in place of a name. Yet, I only know one wizard with the money to fund my dreams. He's telling me to get lucky and I owe it to him to at least make one real attempt. So, I put in my two weeks and started cleaning up my office the day I got it. Nobody knows about the check except Jared and Mary, who I promise to hire the moment this rocket blasts off. Since my final day in the office, I've kept the check thumbtacked to my board as it remains in its original envelope. I can't cash it until I have something good. I will have something good to show for it. I just need to organize my thoughts first.

Hair back in a set of braids to free up some time in my schedule, I keep my slithering snakes pulled away from my face as my stoney glare bores into my computer screen. A light drawn out smoke cloud wafts into my tunnel-shaped vision when I bring my cigarette to my lips. I see nothing else outside of that. Although, my other senses continue to keep me in the loop with my surroundings.

I hear Jared playing DeVante and Nelly's last greatest work published in recent time, Soon As I Get Home, after it was given to Faith Evans. I don't have the eyes to face him as I zone in on my typing and strategizing, but the out-of-tune croons coming from the center of my living-room are enough for me to get a gist of what kind of vibe he's set up for himself in the center of the room. His cologne struggles to compere with the menthol coating my breath as they both lose the battle against the pizza made in my oven for the main scent of my home.

"What you wanna do after you finish," Jared questions, pausing Ricochet on the television as he saunters over to me.

He radiates happiness, no matter how little time he has left in New York before he joins his cousins and friends on their 1995 tour. Jared's preparation process is something unorthodox. Most of the artists in my life prepare for tour by resting and intensely rehearsing. My boyfriend comes from a unique slither of the crew as he spends his counting days casually relaxing, treating his last days the same as his firsts. It's an alternate version of the older cousin of his that has been skipping rehearsals all week as K-Ci and JoJo come later and later everyday. From what I've seen, Dalvin is the only one prepared.

Seeing my boyfriend seemingly be a part of the problem as I drown in my work is something that gets my clock ticking in a wicked way. He looks lazy and I cannot tolerate lazy. Now, almost everything he does makes me feel like he's a nuance. The dominoes are waiting to come crashing down.

Jared presses me when he feels ignored. "Hm?" He places his hands on my shoulders, a soft attempt at a massage coming as he stands behind me.

"Jared..."

"What?"

I can feel my attitude brewing with his every attempt to sooth the knots building in my shoulders. "Baby—" Dropping my hands from my laptop, I sigh. I can't do this right now. "Jared, please stop." Sitting up, I turn myself around as my body stiffens as a response to his touch.