After nine years of being attached at the hip, Lyric and Prince finally split. Now, on the road to recovery, she learns a new way to view life as Prince is forced to face the music of a song he never wanted to played aloud. Join them as they learn a...
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June 9, 1992 San Francisco, California
"What about you, Birthday Girl?"
I sigh with my tea in my hand. We laugh in unison as I begin to pull memories from the crevices of my full brain. "I grew up a little rough." He nods his head in understanding. "We weren't the poorest on the block though. It was me, my twin sister, my parents, three of my cousins, and my grandparents in one house." A squint comes with my struggle to think back to the days of my past. "I thought my dad's family was dead except for my Uncle Dorian for years. 'Til I learned that his family just disowned him because he sacrificed money to stay in the ghetto with my mom and raise us."
"When'd you turn into the Jeffersons?"
I giggle, throwing my braids over my left shoulder. "I had to be like ten? My dad lucked up and got a job at a bank. His boss liked him so much he paid for him to go to school to be an accountant. Then, my mom's praying paid off and next thing you know she's a real estate agent. The blessings started rolling in by the dozens."
My story doesn't match his in any way, shape, or form. His father is dead, his mom was an addict, he grew up in the eastern coast's housing projects. These are only some of the things I've learned in the conversation being had. Tupac and I have been sitting here, swapping stories in my trailer. He has an old, wise soul. I love talking to him.
"I think I just made a friend," he laughs as I pick at my index fingernail.
I smile. "Me too."
A crew member approaches the knocks on my door and holds up a thumbs up once they are let in. That's the signal to say filming is about to continue. The two of us quickly put our masks of shock back on in the name of our closeups. We, then, travel down to the beachfront. This is the last shot of the day. We've been here since four this morning. It's now going on a quarter until five and everybody is exhausted. The blanket wrapped around me is a prop but it is definitely useful. Gray clouds swirled through the skies as a storm prepares itself.
"Action," yells out John from behind the camera man's shoulder.
We inch closer to each other by the second. The both of our eyes shut as our lips touch. His breath tastes like peppermint and as I lean more into his control, I feel myself falling into a serene place in my mind. Recently, I've been asking myself that same question from my bedroom. Where do I go when I go quiet? To the music. Behind the whistling of the trees, the chirping of the birds, the crashing of the waves. Behind the remnants of Prince, cries for my mother to love me the way she once did, the urge to run away to a foreign land. Behind it all lies a continuous song within me. It's a composition shifting into its thirtieth act and the melody is changing.
Softly pulling back from my scene partner's lips as my eyes flutter open, I allow my urges to make my decisions. When John asks if we can do it again from a second angle, I agree. When Tupac thinks he sat his arm in an odd positioning, though he really only wants to kiss me again, I agree. I agree to every take of the kiss. If asked why, the answer continues to be quite simple. I wanted to.
