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not insulting the fat fugly man and breaking for the door the first chance I got.
    I said, “All of this to get an overpriced cup of caramel macchiato.”
    Tommie said, “Hook me up with a white chocolate mocha.”
    â€œWhere you going?”
    â€œLooking to see if somebody is here.”
    Tommie was five-foot-ten, the tallest of us all. I had my leather jacket on, but I was most definitely overdressed for this room. Tommie was a thrift store queen and blended in with the grunginess of the poets. She was wearing tight jeans, a midriff top, a large jean shirt wide open, her brown leather backpack strapped on, holding onto a beige notebook filled with her poetry.
    I hadn’t seen her in tight jeans in months. And she never showed her stomach, not like that.
    She peeped outside, then walked out the side door near the chess players. She came back in the door facing the strip mall and the people smoking and sipping java underneath the outdoor heat lamps. A small performance area had been set up in a corner, and the place was standing room only. A sister was at the microphone, full-figured, D-cups, hair in a big funky Afro, long jean skirt, all that and as sassy as they came, doing her thing, a real sexy piece praising her vagina. She had on a red T-shirt with black letters that read PHAT : PRETTY , HOT , AND TEMPTING . Her words were music, between rap and song, the way she sang praises to her vagina, the faces she was making, the way she was moving, the subtle gestures, she had men licking their lips and fanning themselves.
    You can lead a man to water, but you can’t make him drink
    You can lead a man to good pussy, but you can’t make him eat
    Sisters were laughing and who-hooing and snapping fingers, the old schoolers raising candles, the true tech heads holding up their cell phones with their lights on. Some women wereslapping hands, and at the same time wondering if their pussy was as good as hers.
    Sister brought the house down. After the applause, I asked Tommie, “You performing?”
    â€œWas . . . but . . . nah. Not tonight. Wanted to . . . well . . . I had invited this guy.”
    My sister wore braids the color of Epsom salt, sort of made me think of her as Storm from the X-Men, had silver earrings in her nose, belly button, and one in her left eyebrow. It all looked good on her, fit her personality. She was an Amazon queen on this block of the universe.
    I asked, “A date?”
    â€œWell . . . not exactly.”
    And in that moment, her slender face looked so sensitive. Her thick bottom lip became pouty, sucked on her top lip, then she chewed on her nut brown skin. Below her left eye, almost on her cheek, was a burn the size of the face of a Timex watch, the mark that reminded me of what I wanted to forget.
    She was busy fidgeting, then asking me if she looked okay, making sure everything was in place.
    We found a spot and listened to spoken word ranging from the political to the spiritual to the sexual. Most brothers did political pieces, either about oppression, unity, or black-on-black crimes.
    Black people can’t do nothing together but the Electric Slide.
    I was growing tired, but my caramel macchiato would have me up awhile. Tommie was barely sipping on her white chocolate mocha, her eyes still going over the crowd, in search of some guy.
    We browsed out front, looked over the things for Kwanzaa. The vendor was passing out conspiracy theory literature and selling T-shirts. I supported the cause and bought a couple, one for Tommie, one for me that said DON ’ T FORGET KIRSTIN HIGH AND KENITHIA SAAFIR .
    We headed across the lot, walking through parked cars.
    Tommie said, “I’m worried about Livvy.”
    â€œShe’s put on a lot of weight. I lose a pound, she gains two.”
    â€œThe more she gains, the more she looks like Momma.”
    I took out my cell phone and dialed Livvy’s number. It went