Chapter 1-2

Vested Entering New Unique Seduction vs. Murder Answers Real Situation

Sitylove

“Sometimes mishaps are the best lessons” 

- Ewie B

Chapter 1

Cinema Wynt

 

Andreni C. Tachyon, or as he calls himself on Instagram And_I_am_Fly, will shortly wake up with some agenda to attend to. All six feet of him takes up only a fraction of our California king. He sleeps in minor spurts—two-hour power naps—then spends six hours “getting busy” as he calls it. These tenures always fluctuate: five hours awake, two hours asleep; ten awake, four asleep. That’s just the way he’s living.

My take is that he is afraid of death, so he refrains from lengthy siestas. But we can’t be afraid of our only true friend, Death—the most reliable of them all. Once he rises, his light-brown face will still be fresh. No irritations. No crust in his bright eyes and, best of all, no drool on the side of his sexy lips. 

Tonight is my night like every night is my night. Monday through Monday is a Cinema Wynt night. A pair of my sexy spectacles and I will let our presence be felt. I’m sexy without the specs; actually, they are riding my wave. 

Fresh, clean, dry, moisturized. “Look at those legs, Cinema.”

“Okay, let me see, let me see. I’m feeling like boy shorts. Blue. Teal. Nice.” I dreamed I was making a bomb dinner with these on.

Sometimes I daydream about my night dreams. Then blend the two to make better decisions. Decisionsdecisions. “Come on, Cinema. Let’s go decide on what set of frames you should wear tonight.”

Every time I go into my closet, I’m reminded of how much I love it—1,123 square feet. Andreni calls it an exhibit. The mirrors are accurate. The lighting is great. Over half is color coded. I mean, what more could a diva want? One side is a thirty-feet-by-eight-feet-high wall that displays my eyewear—7,118 pairs to be exact. This was my idea. I designed most of this loft, starting with our master suite down to the twenty-five-yard corridor that ends with the living room on the right and the dining room on the left with an elevator separating the two.

It’s not my dream house, but it can be. Once that day comes, I’ma do my dance. Go, Cinema. Go, Cinema. Go, Cinema. Go go. Easy now. They love it when I do my dance.

Should I get flashy, classy, or nasty tonight? Or can I just take a break and wear these—my rose-gold Kate Spades, which Andreni won’t remember even though he remembers everything.

Gazelles were so fly at the time. I  been soaring since day 1. You can be fly, you can fly high, or you can be soaring. These Dolce&Gabbana were my baby, but I broke the left arm on the 1 train. I was stressed. I didn’t know what I was gonna do. A diva was going crazy. That same evening, I found some crazy glue in the kitchen junk drawer. Yeah, I was back in business.

 

I first saw Andreni through these red Pradas. We were at a fashion show at BMCC where I began my college career and ended with a master’s in social work from Lehman. BMCC was fun—a part 2 to high school. Nobody was strung out on pills or loud yet. Nobody gained fifty pounds yet. Nobody went bankrupt yet. We were all just young dreamers ready for the world.

Janet Pompey, my favorite homegirl at the time. She was the face of the fashion show. She was a pure vixen from Double Nickel. Polo Grounds. She always had some sucker under her spell, keeping her top-notch in every financial aspect.

The auditorium at BMCC had been packed. I was summoned to do hair and makeup. I played my part in keeping the girls cool. It’s fly or die pay attention.

I sat in the reserved row mid-show. Andreni could have sat down in one of many vacant seats, but he chose to stand. He looked as if he was guarding or overseeing. He looked like the guy in the suit behind the bouncer at the club. His hands were behind his back. He wasn’t skinny skinny, but he was fit. Ball player maybe? Maybe a couple of Rucker tournaments. He wore an Olympic Polo rugby that hitched on his belt. Bosses wore horses; in this case, that was a fact.

He caught my eye through the excitement. I didn’t know it back then, but I had three sets of eyes according to Andreni. Most women only have two. My first set sees what people project. My second set sees why they are projecting such demeanor, and my last set sees where I fit in the projection. A knack of a winner is what he calls it.

I applauded the final run, happy for my girl. Everyone was elated at the outcome. She worked her butt off for a show that lasted nearly twenty-five minutes.

It was now 9:30 p.m.—enough time to go home, get undressed, refresh, and hit the club. I had classes first thing in the morning, so I was going home and going to bed. Everyone filed out, organized and rather quickly. Probably because of all the suffocating body splash in the air. I hugged Janet in front of the stage. Her eyes watered. Her Kente gown was stiff. We took pictures to rep for uptown; this caught Andreni’s eye. He stood planted as people excused around him to exit. No facial hair, naturally baby smooth. He stood militant and mature, quiet and confident.

How do you know he’s interested in you, Cinema? That’s what sprung in my mind. I needed to be sure. Janet was, by far, a bad-ass diva. Clearly, birds of a feather. Between Andreni and us was the seating. I walked wide toward the far left in my Sevens. Yes, jeans and jays. I didn’t go down the center, which would have led me straight to him. He registered my movements and proceeded to his far right. He wanted to cut me off, which was scary but flattering determination.

He didn’t wanna let me go. No no no—that wasn’t his first words; they were “You almost escaped.”

“Excuse me?!” I threw a bucket of sass in his face. Who gave him the right ?!He was so cool my stuck-up demeanor didn’t even faze him, and truly, he didn’t need the right.

“My name is Andreni. Your beauty tells me we need to get to know each other.”

An-dren-i, I repeated his name in my head. What was he—Jamaican? Dominican? All the men I’ve ever attracted with were Ty, Ha, G-Money, Dollarz, and Gwop, just fictitious hustlers that got their garments up from boosting and stolen identities. Andreni didn’t give off that vibe even though he was well weeded. He didn’t stink of loud. His breath was fresh, and his face glowed. He got an A-plus for his smile—a smile that brings joy to melancholy moments, or it maximizes the joy in already joyful moments. I continued to fumble his name in my mouth not realizing he had his hand out with his introduction. I was in a daze that I couldn’t fight. All he said was his name, and clips of us sharing something played in my mind: sharing something bigger than me putting on his fitted and chain to do my dance in the mirror. Something bigger than Red Lobster.

“Cinema Wynt.” I held my smirk.

His hands were soft, but he was a little aggressive as he told me that he was from South Jamaica, Queens. I found that funny because I’ve been to Southside, and the aura was a little different.

With that in mind, I knew Andreni couldn’t be classified by borough. He was definitely a New York fly guy. Before I agreed to walk with him, he said he could only give me twenty-one minutes, staring at his G-Shock. He supposedly had to take care of something. Who gave him the right? As if I were applying for a job or something. I ended up using every second of the twenty-one minutes. The fact that time meant something to him was actually a plus. We all know that life is made up of time, and for that, I knew he cherishes his life.

 

The M22 bus pulled up, letting off that engine desert heat into the spring night. He sidestepped to give the bus his back and shield me. He asked to see my ID. Stalker alert . . . or maybe he was just being cautious. Nah nah—definitely stalker alert. Not that I would mind if he did. I gave him my learner’s permit, opposed to my school ID that didn’t have my home address. A laser stare from his low, hazy eyes lasted about two seconds. I had so many questions for him, but he kept it simple. He had his diploma, and he wasn’t going to school. He was twenty-two. He said his occupation was none of my beeswax. That was so cheesy but cheesy at the perfect moment.

I knew he was down to his last minute before he checked his watch again. He fanned his two hands for me to come closer. He was soaring but me too. I pleaded in my mind that he wasn’t gonna spoil what I felt so far by trying to kiss me. That would have been ultimately cheesy. And plus it’s dangerous kissing random people. You’ll be walking around with a sizzle on your lip. He didn’t lean in for a kiss. Thank God. He took my glasses off and looked square in my eyes. I was a young teen all over again—coy, vulnerable, and excited to see what was in store. He examined my face, and the cheesiest line ever jumped out his fat lips.

“I just really wanted to see your face.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I am tinkering around with the higher science.

Birthing ideas, envisioning the desired results

standing firm on it, letting the universe bend to my will!

God shit!”

- Gary G. Smith

Chapter 2

Andreni C. Tachyon

 

Forty minutes flat. A cool convalesce. I got it down to a second according to my iPhone that I placed back on the nightstand. I let the Swarovski ceiling trance me a bit. Little bling pellets designed as the solar system surrounding the chandelier that plays the role of the sun. Blame or praise Cinema for her creative mind.

The vents had yet to neutralize the Olay aroma out our master’s bath. She must be minutes out the shower. Face cloth. Listerine. Warm water. Many said I was always in a rush. I say, “What are we sitting around for?” And I’m damn sure ain’t sitting around tonight. I don’t sit around. I get “bizzy.”

Not sure where I’m going, but I need to be somewhere. Really, I just wanna drive, get that open-road feeling. Yeah! The liberation of being in control and letting all that doesn’t matter not matter, feel me?

Cold water. Spit Listerine in toilet. Rinse my mouth, clothes my pores. Heading past the shower area to the closet that is mostly Cinema’s. This entire loft is mostly her. She dotes on luxe living.

“Dreni, baby, you gotta see it. It’s on top of an old factory on Mercer and W. Houston Street,” she enthused over the phone, simultaneously sending me a photo of the place.

The detailed, colored Venus flytrap tattooed on her cinnamon-complexion ankle was what I saw first. She was going out tonight or wanted to go out tonight. I could tell that in her mind she was already there, rocking to her personal beat and big brown curls bouncing on her back. Her areolas gave me a peripheral wink. She know I’m checking her out. I get no acknowledgment. She is busy—too busy to get dressed. Boy shorts she know I love. Really, I love any undergarments she puts on and love it when she takes ’em off. I love the perfection from the tip of her pedicure to the follicles on her scalp. I love the dimples in the small of her back. I love her cute little nose, her ominous, weakening smile. I love how she is secretly shy with enough confidence to pull of any selfie. I love how she adds an extra hour to any preparation just to do her make up. Her brows, her highlights, her contours, lips and lashes. Most of all, her eyes—I love her chinky, sexy blind eyes, like two impeccable mirror slices complimenting her cheekbones. Her eyes do it every time. They don’t show much, but I can see enough in her brilliant, daring, alluring insolent eyes.

I made it my business to know Cinema more than she knows herself. I know her favorite everything. I know why she likes what she likes. I know where her birthmarks are. I know where her mental scars are. I know her expectations and the supporting theory to have them. I know how to answer most of the questions she doesn’t ask. I know Cinema would be fascinated over her myriad of glasses and shades longer than she should. Then she’d pick one out of the–I don’t know—ten thousand that sit on labeled bases with their own little LED, illuminating each one. I take her through my nose, exhale with force blowing a few of her tentacles into her face. Her dancing don’t stop. She turns her head and shoot me a wink. I wink back. We hold a connection. We are both topless, sockless, and wordless, but speaking so fluently. She let a light smirk slip. I return a smile. I blow the first kiss—a soft mwah from eight or nine feet—and a louder smooch from her then she goes back to view her collection. This is our fab life.

Me, I don’t need glasses. Im 20/20 homie. Yeah, I got some Cartiers. Sometimes I Chrome Hearts it, Kissilyn Cold it, or put my Louis Vuitton millionaire only because I’m a goddamn millionaire. It took long enough. Cinema, she played a part in it all. My garments are on the tail end of the closet. The space looks so narrow next to the fire escape. Loafers, jeans, Drip tee,(mispentyouth.net) and I am fresh.

I freeze at the car keys: Bimmer, Benz, or Bentley. I am going for a stimulating drive, clear mind drive—a reassess-my-life drive. I am aiming for that solitary sensation. You know, when you’re so peaceful you get a good idea—a great idea rather. At first, you second-guess this idea because of its potency. For hours, you question if someone shared the idea with you in the past. Then, you are convinced, it’s all yours. The ingenuity catapults your confidence. Now you are ready. This is the drive I’m going to drive tonight. A drive to keep me ready. If you stay ready you ain’t gotta get ready. 

The mouthwatering leather makes the AMG-GT C Roadster smell a day old, but really, it’s a week old. Cinema picked this Mercedes out. According to the price tag, she was overly faithful. She needed the complete premium package. Better to have wished, than wish you had.

The August sky is pitch, clear and tranquil. The west side is like a postcard. I let it soak in. These were the times I really counted my blessings. Benz is tinted all around, which was not her style. So I asked if she bought the car for me. I like my rides presidential. She bought it for herself, but she normally lived up to her name. She loves to be seen, even by those who’s opinions were utterly useless.

Malichi, my brother who got me by three years, had a nice dinner party for his oldest Penelope, nine. She endured the honor roll for two straight years at her private school. That’s something to commend.

Every now and then, Cinema and Malichi didn’t get along, but so what. She is not that childish for her not to show up. But she didn’t. I got curious when she was not on the scene. She was just being herself. Cinema cared at times; at times, she didn’t. Sometimes she did it big. Sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes she went to Lig, my baby brother of two years, and played with his pit bulls. Sometimes dogs made her sick.

Lately she had been talking about jumping the broom. We stumbled on this topic, and shortly after, she brought it right back up. She didn’t ask if I would or we would. She just merely suggested it would be best for us to come to a nuptial agreement.

“It doesn’t have to be extreme. We can have it here in the living room; invite forty to fifty people, or it can just be you and me if you want.” I see this as a combination of TV “womenism” (a woman’s goal in life, for some uncanny reason, is to get married) and boredom. Or maybe, the truth is, she knows no one but me can deal with her as a whole—her domineering ways, her silent animated nightmares. A Drew Hamilton project girl. Now a Houston diva with stamps on her passport and an amax that allows her to get another AMG-GT C in the morning. A chess player at heart. Driver by nature who always sees the checkered flag and olive leaf crowned in the mirror.

Who on earth is really up that challenge?


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