Her belt. That’s the thing. She has a belt. Brown leather. She wears it every time.
It goes with everything she wears which is always some version of the same thing.
She mentions it when you are about to do something. ‘Keep it up’ she’ll say. Low. Right in your ear. ‘And I’ll use my belt’.
You’re about seventy percent sure she won’t.
You’ve been talking to this guy for four minutes.
Dre clocked it at two. The energy is wrong.
She can see it in your shoulders. The way your hand moves when you talk.
She sets her drink down. Excuses herself from the conversation.
She comes up behind you just as your voice ticks up a register.
“I’m just saying that’s a crazy thing to say to someone—”
“I didn’t say it to you—”
“You said it ABOUT—”
Her hand finds the back of your head. Your hair. Gets a grip. And pulls.
Just enough.
You make a sound.
“Excuse us,”
Dre says.
She walks. You go with her. Because the grip on your hair made the decision.
She steers you to the hallway.
You spin around.
“What the—”
“He’s not worth it.”
“I wasn’t going to DO—”
“Your voice was at a seven.”
“I was making a point—”
“In front of eight people at someone else’s kickback.”
You open your mouth. She looks at you.
The way she does when she’s already three steps ahead.
“He said something stupid,”
you say.
“People say stupid things.”
“It was really stupid.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t hear it.”
“I heard enough.”
“So you get it.”
“I get it and I still pulled you out.”
You look at her. She looks back. The belt. You don’t look at the belt.
“Go get a drink,”
she says.
“I had one.”
“Get another one. Give it ten minutes.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know you think that.”
“Dre—”
“Drink. Ten minutes.”
You stare at her. She stares back.
You go get a drink.
Eleven minutes later.
You’re fine. You’re talking to Maya about something else entirely.
Dre is back in her conversation.
You climb on the counter. The kitchen counter. Just to sit on it. Because the stools are taken.
The cabinet above the counter is open. You reach up to close it.
The person next to you says something funny. You lean to respond.
The counter is not that wide.
You lean a little far. Your hand goes out to catch—A hand catches the back of your shirt.
Yanks. You come back to center.
“Don’t,”
Dre says. Right behind you.
Drink in her other hand.
“I was fine,”
you say.
“Mm-hm.”
“I had it.”
“You were at a forty-five degree angle off a counter.”
“I was leaning—”
“Get down.”
“I’m sitting—”
“Get down or I’ll get you down.”
You look at her. The hand still loosely holding your collar.
The belt.
Your eyes go to it for one second. You look back up. She raises one eyebrow. Barely.