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 6, 1993 New York, New York
DeVante's sprawled across his the couch, eyes and lips swollen as if his coherence to the outside world is a freshly granted wish. "What's that," he asks me from the couch, barely moving a muscle as I come strutting in with two styrofoam containers of food.
"Some ribs from that one place in Harlem I told you Jan always takes me to."
Sluggish, his movements slow, he lifts himself up from the couch. He meets me halfway, taking the bag from my hand as he lightly bends to hug me from the side. I look around his home. The infamous bachelor pad being cleaner than usual as well as quieter than usual sparks my train of thought's engine, sending it chugging down its never-ending track.
"What are you doing?"
I fall on the cushion next to him as he sets the food on his coffee table. I've heard he's still learning to furnish a home and this tabke is a fresh six months old. "Just woke up." I drop my purse in the crevice between my hip and the couch's arm as DeVante scoots over another full cushion. "Was workin' all night with one of my artists. The girl can sing but she couldn't hit this one note all night. Just take after take, she kept fucking it up. We ain't leave until she got it."
"I wouldn't 've left either," I laugh.
His hazy gaze meets mind as he rolls his heavy head to face my direction, his ear nearly brushing against his shoulder. "You wouldn't 've went a whole night fucking up the same note either."
"True." He laughs a little, mostly to himself, and pops open his container of food. "When was the last time you did something fun outside of work? I never see you doing much else unless it's my idea."
His shoulders shrug. A lack of knowledge on such a subject tells me all that I need to know about him. He's a victim to the same monster I, and only a select few others, suffer from. It's the music that rules us. So easily can you become a slave to chasing your inner creatively as it consistently begs for freedom. Ironic.
"Now that I'm thinkin' 'bout it," says DeVante after a beat of silence, "I went to Martin's last Def Comedy Jam taping. Shit was crazy." A chuckles follows his words. I have to believe him. I know Martin is a mess.
Nodding in approval, I pop open my food as well. "I find myself thinking about you sometimes and I just hope you're living in these moments. I can think of so many times I draw blanks from because I was too busy working... I want somebody who works as hard as you to know you can enjoy the fruits of your labor in real time."
"How much you be thinkin' 'bout me?"
My scoff overpowdered by my laughter, I roll my eyes at the way he's only heard what he wants. "Now, see!" I point with a laugh.
