The beat of his drum that I had marched to and the cadence of my presumption diverged, my feet now capered to the illicit philosophies of my own wit. The gratification of his deviousness exhibited through his arrogance. His conceitedness unperturbed. His ability to delude amplified his pompous stance and enhanced his atrocious appeal. It was time for work...
She had ignored the call...he had yet to find out he didn't have a phone. Would he wonder if he had lost it? Left it the Restaurant? He had called me since. Her manner now distant and downcast she said 'Dont forget about Poindexter Babe'. He agreed not to forget...I was sure he would. She slipped on the white cotton pajama set and prepared to walk him to the door. His clothes still laid in the living room...'I enjoyed u,' he said before they exited the bedroom. 'I saw her Lamont, what if she knows?' She asked. 'U don't have to worry...it will be all over soon,' he said before kissing her. 'She wouldn't be seen there, not her class. He'd worn the Calvin Klein underwear I had bought. What had he meant? Did he want a divorce? He had not indicated in no shape form or fashion he wanted a divorce! The rage filled my nostrils. I could taste the blood from my tongue as I bit it to house my screams of indignation and resentment. The tempo quickened, I reiterated his words in my psyche, was I becoming unstable? His truth, my optimism....my emotional frailty, my imperceptive vistas of aspiration, my refusal to be persuaded and yes, he had allowed it. He had allowed, the spikes to be forged through my soul, I had given him viability! I had given him incentive...I had given him nobility. His drum, the solidified sound of his
vessel had clobbered against my better judgement, and pounded my existence, I had marched. High and eager I had strutted and promenaded my stupidity.
Was he now dressed? Had he felt for his phone...had it been time for his lies? I could hear the chime of the alarm, he had gone...the engine purred.
She returned to the bedroom, her face disfigured from sorrow...had she felt betrayed, had she known his truths? Surprisingly she fell to the floor and began to scream. She ripped her clothes and studied her wrists...her composure inexistent. Her shirt hang shredded, her neck red from his hand.
I pressed send.
She noticed the phone as it lit up on the nightstand and wiped her eyes...she stood clumsily in an effort to retrieve it, I could tell she was relieved to see it was Lamont.
'Did u decide to call in?' She playfully inquired.
Call Ended. Bitch.
Studying the device she noticed the call earlier had come from Lamont's phone, but how so. She pondered before returning the call. Confused, she awaited his salutation.
Rejected. Bitch.
As she paced I watched through the vertical dividers...had this been his personal closet? The large walk-in closet crosswise contained all of her designer trinkets necessary to enhance her self esteem, rudimentary and foreseeable, a loss would be detrimental to her disposition.
I pressed send.
She answered...'Love why....?'
Call Ended.
Flabbergasted she gnawed at her nails, the passion marks lined her shoulder.
Called Returned.
Declined. Rejected. Denied...Bitch.
Her gait now lackadaisical.
'He's pocket dialing,' she said. 'He better be pocket dialing.'
She opened the drawer and took out the gold case and separated the lines. The consumption was quick, the effect was satisfying.
I hadn't known how to digest what then happened but the tempo of my own drum came into existence, each strike improvising the ballad now to my own tune.
She opened the half filled bottle of rum she'd taken from the drawer of the nightstand and twisted the cap off of the bottle of Xanax. I watched as she prepared to consume them. She put two on her tongue, and took a drink. The tempo hastened.
Two more, then another drink... the pulse resonated.
I pressed send. She ignored.
Two more. Another drink. My thoughts that paraded through my mind now danced to my own beat. They didn't dance to the beat of one drum anymore.
My phone vibrated...she paused.