Because before I ever wrote raps or poetry I wrote stories. So, in my recent efforts to rediscover myself I decided one night, a few weeks ago, to scribe some prose (i.e. type some words into my MacBook) just for practice. Here’s what I came out with, unedited.
‘She still does that,’ Marlon thought to himself as he remembered the way Roxanne flipped her hair with her fingers, flicking her wrist gracefully, whenever she felt anxious. Roxanne had flipped her hair at least three times since the moribund couple sat down. Marlon estimated that not more than seven or eight minutes had passed, yet here Roxanne was, flipping her hair as if her wrist had been lacking in exercise. Marlon adjusted his fedora—chestnut and suede, a thrift store found treasure.
“So Rox, why are we here today?”
“To talk Marlon, I guess,” Roxanne paused. “…yes, to talk.”
“Well, since I’m here,” Marlon took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled with an easiness that brought Roxanne back to more carefree times when Netflix, Riesling, a medium pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, and being wrapped in Marlon’s arms was everything she dreamed of. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Us…you…me…” Roxanne flipped her hair, “well, not us as in us, but us as in where we are these days, in life I mean. To catch up with each other’s lives, the memoirs we’re living that haven’t been written yet.”
Marlon ashed his cigarette. “Well, you always were poetic.”
“I try,” Roxanne replied quickly, unsure whether there was more behind Marlon’s quip—was that a kind of dismissive sarcasm or was he being genuine? The fleeting thought was quickly ushered out of her mind. Marlon smirked.
“You succeed, miss.” Marlon crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. His face was half hidden in a shadow cast by the last of the day’s sunlight falling over the chestnut fedora. Roxanne studied his features whenever he looked away, assessing what had changed, wrinkled, or aged. “So then, catching up…”