Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Friday, February 12, 1993 9:30 PM — San Fernando Valley Apartment
——————-
The living room smelled like Pine-Sol and fried chicken, a confusing mix that was all them. The Pine-Sol came from Daria — she'd insisted on mopping before she let Demi's bassinet roll across the carpet. The fried chicken came from Vantè, who walked in balancing two greasy bags of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles like they were a prize from God.
Their apartment was small, beige walls and even beige carpet, but Daria had dressed it up. Silk plants from Slauson Swap Meet by the window. A lace table runner her mama mailed from Charlotte. A wedding photo over the TV — Vantè in a borrowed suit, Daria in an off-white dress that wasn't technically a wedding gown but had been close enough. The corners of the frame still smelled faintly like incense from her mama's house.
The TV itself was a chunky Zenith with rabbit ears, stacked on top of milk crates that had been spray-painted black to look intentional. A VHS copy of Boomerang leaned against a half-busted Nintendo. On the coffee table sat a spread of Jet and Ebony magazines, one flipped open to Janet Jackson's That's the Way Love Goes shoot. A cordless phone with a stretched-out spiral cord sat charging, right next to a silver pager.
It was 1993, but in this little apartment it could've been any year — except the sound of Dre's The Chronic humming from the neighbor's stereo through the wall reminded them they were in the Valley now, not back home in Charlotte.
"Baby," Vantè called, dragging his voice like he'd just survived war. He let the door slam with his foot, dropping the Roscoe's bags on the counter next to the new Sony stereo system he'd financed. "Lines longer than church prayer."
From the couch, Daria didn't look up. Satin scarf tied snug over her braids, an oversized Nas tour tee slipping off one shoulder, she was curled with their newborn, Demi, pressed against her chest. The baby's tiny mouth was open, breathing soft and steady. Daria's eyes were half shut, her head leaning against the back cushion like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"You woke her up, I'ma kill you," she muttered, her voice raspy with sleep and irritation.
Vantè leaned against the counter, smirking, sweat shining faint on his forehead. "What, you mean my daughter? The one I paid hospital bills for? The one I damn near passed out watchin' come outta you?"
Daria cracked an eye open, aiming it straight at him. "Boy, shut up and fix me a plate before I cuss you out."
He chuckled, pulling styrofoam containers out of the bag, foil crackling. "Damn, two years married and you talk to me like I'm some side nigga droppin' off food."
"If the shoe fit."
He barked a laugh. "Girl, please. A side nigga wouldn't wait forty-five minutes in Roscoe's line. That's husband behavior. Premium package."
