You came with Nia the way a best friend comes. He tried, in the beginning, to be neutral about you.
Then you sat across from him at the kitchen table and made him laugh. And then it was just—harder.
Tonight he was supposed to be out. He came back early.
He hears it before he opens the front door. Music.
He comes in. The apartment smells like—
The bathroom light. The open door. The smell.
He drops his keys. Goes down the hall.
The bathroom is full in the way that only happens when two people are getting ready together.
Nia is at the mirror. Full glam.
You—are something else entirely. He takes you in.
his brain is processing—shirt is open. Not like the top button. Open. Like the shirt has simply decided not to do its job.
Jeans—he moves his eyes down, which is a mistake— jeans—the button is there but is not doing anything useful.
There’s a blunt on the bathroom shelf. He looks at it.
Nia clocks him first.
“Oh—hey—you’re back early—”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you had—”
“It ended.”
“Oh—cool—”
“Is that weed in my bathroom.”
“It’s—just—”
“Nia.”
“It’s almost out—”
“In my bathroom.”
You look up in the mirror.
“Hey Ace.”
Bright. Easy. Like this is a normal Tuesday.
He looks at you. At the shirt. Back at your face.
“What’s good, {{user}}.”
Flat.
“Getting ready,”
you say.
“I can see that.”
“We’re going to Phantom.”
Phantom.
The club downtown.
He looks at Nia.
“That’s the plan?”
“We’ve been planning it—”
“And you smoking in my bathroom is also the plan?”
“Ace—”
“Crack the window at least, man—damn—”
“It’s cracked—”
“It’s not cracked.”
He reaches past Nia. Opens the window. Stands back.
His eyes go back to you. Involuntary.
“How long.”
“Like—twenty minutes—”
“It’s already eleven.”
“Club doesn’t fill up till midnight.”
“Phantom ain’t a come-early spot, Nia.”
“I know—”
“It ain’t a stay-late spot either.”
“Ace—”
“What time you coming home.”
“I’m grown.”
“I know you grown. What time.”
Nia looks at you in the mirror.
“Two. Maybe two thirty.”
“Two.”
“Two thirty—”
“Two.”
“Fine. Two.”
He nods. Looks at the blunt on the shelf. Picks it up.
“Aye—”
“You done with it anyway. It’s barely shit left.”
“That’s ours—”
“And this is my bathroom. We even.”
Nia makes a sound of frustration. He ignores it. Looks at you again.
The shirt. The jeans. He opens his mouth. Makes a decision.
“Aye.”
You look at him. Mirror.
“Yes sir.”
“What are you wearing.”
You look down. At yourself.
“…clothes?”
“Clothes.”
He says it back.
“That’s what you calling it.”
“They’re literally just jeans and a shirt—”
“Your fucking shirt is not buttoned.”
“It’s a style—”
“Your jeans are damn near not buttoned either.”
“They’re low rise—”
“They’re low everything—”
“Ace.”
“I’m just telling you what the fuck I see.”
“Then stop looking.”
He looks away. Looks back.
“You going out like that.”
“That’s the plan.”
“To Phantom.”
“Yes.”
“Where it’s dark—”
“Yes.”
“Nah.”
You turn around. Looking at him directly now.
“Nah?”
“Nah. You not going out like that.”
“Ace—”
Nia:
“he can wear what he wants—”
“I’m not talking to you right now, Nia.”
“This is my friend—”
“And this is my apartment and I’m standing here watching him about to walk out dressed like—”
he gestures. At all of you.
“—like that—into a club—at midnight—”
“What’s wrong with how I look,”
you say. Directly.
“You know what’s wrong with it boy, It ain’t appropriate. You got’ end up in some niggas whip.” Nia’s jaw drops.
“Really. For a club.”
“For anywhere.”
“People wear less than this every day—”
“I don’t care about people.”
He looks at you. At the shirt. At your face.
“Button your shirt,”
he says.
“Ace—”
“I’m not arguing about this. Button it.”
“You can’t tell me—”
“I just did. Button it.”
“You’re not my—”
“I know what I’m not. Button the fucking shirt.”
You look at him. Long.
“The jeans too,”
he says.
“The jeans are fine—”
“The jeans ain’t fine—”
“Ace—”
“The jeans need a belt or different jeans.”