Best Friends: A Short Story.

My best friend is calling me and I’m smiling at the phone. I can already hear her voice, loud and proud. That kind of pride you have when someone you love does something good and you know that it also makes you look good because it’s someone you know. “My bitch published a book!” She will say and then ask me to text her the Amazon link so that she can be the first person to purchase it. Then she’ll ask me how long it took me to write and and why I never told her I was writing it. But then it’ll hit her and she’ll be like, “Oh that’s what you were doing them nights you brought your laptop over!”

“Hello?” I answer, bracing myself for the screams.
“GIRL. Let me tell you what this nigga just did!” She yells.
“Uh…” I start, surprised. She finishes telling me how mad she is at her boyfriend for not wanting to go out after he got off from his 12-hour shift. “He wanted to go to sleep girl. At 8pm, he wanted to go to sleep!” She talks and talks and then finally asks, “Am I wrong to be mad?” Even though she already knows she’s wrong to be mad, and she already knows that I’m going to tell her that she’s wrong to be mad, but she doesn’t trust her own judgement, so she needs my second opinion.

It’s distrust of her own voice learned in churches and black homes —no one ever trust heir own selves;, everyone needs the confirmation of a preacher or a parent. Sad. “You’re wrong.” I respond. She smacks her teeth and starts her “I don’t know why my attitude is so bad” speech.

“Well, let me go. I got to uh…” I interrupt her and try thinking of a lie. Pick up my sister? Wash the dishes? Nah. “Let me go. I don’t want to talk to you right now.” I saw sharply, and hang up before she has the chance to respond. I remove the emojis from her contact information.


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