She gestured at the spot next to her on the couch. “I’m supposed to be there at seven,” I said. She pointed at the couch again.
I sat down, and she put her arm around me. “You don’t talk much to your mother.”
Dr. Singh told me once that if you have a perfectly tuned guitar and a perfectly tuned violin in the same room,
and you pluck the D string of the guitar, then all the way across the room, the D string on the violin will also vibrate.
I could always feel my mother’s vibrating strings. “I also don’t talk much to other people.”
“I want you to be careful about that Davis Pickett, okay? Wealth is careless —so around it, you must be careful.”
“He’s not wealth. He’s a person.” “People can be careless, too.”
She squeezed me so tight it felt like she was pressing the breath out of me.
“Just be careful.”
I was the last to arrive, and the remaining space was next to Mychal, across from Davis,
who was wearing a plaid button-down, nicely ironed, sleeves rolled up just so, exposing his forearms.
I’m not sure why, but I’ve always been pretty keen on the male forearm.
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