We dropped Mikhel off at home to his wife. Then the three of us pulled up in front of a huge white, antebellum-style mansion in Buckhead. The long winding driveway almost made my stomach sick. Sigrid sort of tripped through the massive double -doors. Inside, floor to ceiling paintings, from Disney animation to Marvel superheroes, and strange blueprints, hung on the graffiti muraled walls. There was also one Basquiat, not a print. I paused in front of it.
“Yeah, my people got that long money. I wanna show y’all the extended trailer for the movie. Y’all gonna like it.”
“We better,” Sigrid giggled.
Bank$ led us through the huge first floor to an elevator and then up into an in-home theatre. We settled onto the red velvet sofa. He hit the lights and clicked a button and a projection screen slinked down the wall and the trailer started for “ATLast”. Maybe because I was so high, it took a moment for the light tugging on my hair to register. When it did, I saw that it was Bank$’ hand in it. His left hand rested palm down on Sigrid’s thigh, and was playfully winding his fingers in and out of my curls with his right one. I looked around the room at its over the top opulence. There were mirrors and gold-leafing everywhere. I was long way from where I had been. The water had come and bottomed me out. There was nothing like the way death surprised. One day I would move his body home. I told Sigrid the story that first day we met. I found Corey face down on the floor in the Motel 6 in Houston. It was that water killed him. I know it did.
Bank$’ hand moved from my curls to the back of my neck. I was nervous, also comfortable, and buzzed. It was excitement that had the hairs on my neck standing up. Sigrid shifted in her seat, and passed the blunt on the other side of Bank$.
“How you skip me?”
“I’m not skipping you,” Sigrid kind of slurred.
Bank$ did not move his hand from my neck. His grip grew a little tighter and he pulled me to him. Sigrid moved closer to the two of us and rested her gold-ringed hands on my shoulder. She placed the other one on Bank$’ chest.
“Yes. Yes,” she said. “I just want my friend to be happy.”
“Who you?” Bank$ looked at me. “You? Kaloneeka. The mean one from New Orleans? You ain’t mean. Nah, not that mean at all…”
Kristina Kay Robinson 