Page 30 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B
I stare at it.
He’s too perfect. I don’t trust it.
So I push the bowl toward him.
“Pick one.”
He hesitates. “I’m good. But thanks.”
My face deadpans.
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
His smile falters, and he grabs a red:
dangerous, confident, dominant.
Everything’s a test, even the Starburst—
how long he hesitates,
which color he picks,
how often he checks his reflection.
The quiet shit
always screams the loudest.
Pink Starburst:
people-pleasers, trainable, in love.
Orange: obsessed, toxic,
might write me a song,
then key my car.
Yellows are serial killers.
Or people who turn down the volume.
“Red?” Celie claps once. “Oh, he one of them respectful ass-eaters.”
“Celie,” I mutter.
He grins,
popping the Starburst into his mouth.
I stand and shrug off the blazer, draping it over the back of the chair. “Rapid fire. I ask, you answer. Fast, no stalling. Spit, don’t think.”
He nods, eyes never leaving mine.
I walk toward him, my heels echoing in the room. “Give head or receive head?” I ask, circling his chair.
He straightens with the question. “Give,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me. “What kind of man picks ‘receive’ with two women starin’ at him?”
