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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May 22, 1993 Chanhassen, Minnesota
I flip through the thin, cheaply printed pages of the magazine, intrigued with whatever it is that she has to say. Time's passed since we last spoke. I don't remember why I didn't call. I can't say it was all that important if I can't pinpoint it. It'd be a little too late to call now. Beating myself up about working is the last thing I'll do, especially when she had just as much opportunity to reach out if she really cared. She knows the number.
I scan through the article, reading a few parts aloud here and there as I nibble on a cracker. My eyes light up at the sight of my name. "When asked about her friendship with Prince, she says..." I pull the paper closer to me. "I couldn't explain in words to you how much I love that guy. Even when we're mad at each other, it never lasts too long. We'd get too bored without the other. I just talked to him last night. We're always gonna be good..."
No exact interview date throws last night into the air as either eons ago or a boldfaced lie but that's fine because we're good.
We're always gonna be good. Those are her words, not mine, and that is why I won't cry over our spilled milk. There's always a tomorrow when it comes to her. I'll always see her again. I don't like her any kind of upset with me but at least I know we're forever.
She could've been lying. Hell, she could've been misquoted. I know what it is with these type of things. You can't believe anything said on the tv or printed in a magazine. Last week I babysat Bubbles while Mike used Paisley Park to film a video featuring Tupac Shakur. Something in me trusts this statement anyway. I'll still go by these words. And as I let her printed words keep hope alive, I marvel at every photograph provided. I can't stop looking at the pictures. This is a photoshoot that any man would love to witness in person. Gay or straight, she's got the goods to keep a brother running across a sea of fiber glass to catch a glimpse of her.
The longer I stare at the pictures, the harder it becomes to look at them. They bring back heavy memories. Tired of seeing exactly what the rest of the world sees, I drop the magazine on my desk and reach into my bottom left drawer for a photo I know was gifted to md because I'm special. I retrieve an outtake from her fourth album. Her round eyes gazing into the camera, full lips pouted as her chin rests against the edge of the tub, the bubble bath is a genius prop in the shot. Printed and framed, it sat on my desk for the last five years. I let out a long, airy breath that quickly morphs into a whistle. I feel myself stiffen.
Damn.
I don't miss her. I don't need her. The chant's a default for whenever my mind starts retracting too far into the past. I have to remind myself of the truth. I don't miss that girl, I just miss the companionship she gave me, and I damn sure don't need her. When John's seed fertilized Mattie's egg, Prince came in this world a single being. My RSVP for heaven has my name, and my name alone, on it. That's just the way it is. I don't need any-damn-body.
