one shots

shorty swing my way [11]

january 1999
sunday
12:43 a.m.

I realized that he watches me sleep. I didn't notice at first (because I was asleep, of course). I'd awaken from nightmares to find him already looking at me. I know it sounds creepy, but it's sweet once you get all the facts.

He told me that one night he was awakened by my constant fidgeting and noticed that I was having a nightmare. That same night, I woke up crying from a dream filled with flashbacks of Lisa's funeral and watching her die in my arms. He held me in his arms and told me that everything would be okay and that he was all I needed. Since then, he wouldn't sleep, and after my third time waking up in tears, I refused to sleep.

So, here we are— cooking and listening to music. Anything else would've put me to sleep. I felt better being on my feet and moving around anyway. The same thing went for work.

Although I've gotten absolutely no sleep in the last two weeks, I seemed to be doing just fine at work. Meanwhile, I wasn't exactly playing the role of "wifey" like I'd done before for DeAndré. With me working overtime all the time, I'd often leave him hanging. Even once I had days off, he would be called in late at night or wouldn't come home until about 5:00 a.m.

Our time for each other completely shifted, and the result was us constantly missing each other. However, tonight— technically last night— was different. I came home after a day of running errands and showered, and by the time I made it out, he was just coming home. We caught each other's gaze and hugged and kissed each other as if we hadn't seen each other in months. Shit, those two weeks away from him felt like months.

Once I had some clothes on and he had showered and changed, we went out on a bit of a date night. It was nothing major— a poetry slam and hot chocolate, something he obviously had a soft spot for (especially since there was live music there). I thought it was really cool— really thoughtful. It was food for the soul, and I was more than grateful for it.

Once we were home, he sparked a blunt while I went into the kitchen. I was in the mood to cook. After all, hot chocolate can only fill you up so much.

DeAndré eventually joined me, putting the seasoned fish into the pan that was frying. He was trying not to get popped, dropping the fish as quickly as possible before backing away and dodging the flying grease. I giggled, watching him drop food into a pan with one hand and smoke mary jane with the other.

"It's not that damn serious, D," I laughed.
"You must've never been popped before," he glanced at me as I stirred the pasta and checked on the steaming broccoli.
"Oh, I have plenty of times," I nodded.
"Then you know that shit hurts, Nay. That grease ain't nothin' to play wit'," he smirked.

I simply shook my head before beginning to grab plates since the pasta and broccoli were done.

"Yo, shorty. You should try to get some rest tonight," he said while flipping the fish.
"I'm good," I waved off the suggestion.
"You ain't slept in two weeks," he reminded me.
"Neither have you," I retorted.

He said nothing as I took a seat and waited for him to finish frying the fish. Once he was done and the fish was placed on our plates, I took the liberty of grabbing sodas for us.

"Why you always gotta' fight me on everything, huh?" he asked while sitting down.
"I'm not fighting," I mumbled.
"So, you will go to sleep tonight?" he quizzed.
"No. I didn't say th—"

"Baby, I just want what's best for you," he told me.
I sighed halfway through his statement, not wanting to hear any of this. I damn sure didn't feel like arguing over how we always end up arguing. That just sounded dumb.