Page 21 of Saint Baptiste 2

But fuck them.

I refused to go all the way upstairs for my wig, just to walk a couple of feet to grab a tray of food.

“Long time no see,” Greeted Chase as soon as I stepped out onto the porch.

Aw hell. This nigga. He was such a got damn creep. That’s all he did—creep and with that fucking mug.

I pivoted, turning away to take the few steps to grab my food. I didn’t say a word to him. Was it rude? Of course it was rude. I didn’t give a fuck. I truly didn’t have a fuck to give to the male species. Couldn’t care less about hurting what little feelings they had, if they had any at all. I was pissed, remember? Besides, I knew what Chase was. I knew what He was up to. The both of them. Him and God. God with his tests. Chase with his funky ass coffee mug. He wanted to drink me. God wanted me to let him. Just so I could end up right back in another fucking cycle with another version of them. But nah, I had on my got damn blinders. I was staying away from them. Fuck ‘em all. They didn’t deserve my coochie, and I for damn sure didn’t deserve another heartbreak. Not that a nigga sipping tea—yes tea, I noticed the little tag dangling on the side of the cup—could break my heart. I just... I couldn’t stand to waste any more time on anything pointless. And men... they were that. Pointless.

Life in general was pointless.

Mine was at least. Felt like I had only been sent here to suffer.

When I turned around, he was standing at the edge of Mrs. and Mr. Sherman’s porch, at the railing. My eyes instantly went to that muthafucking mug. I frowned. I was sure I looked like a mad woman. My hair was wild, I was barefoot wearing a stained gray duster, and a repulsive frown. I got confirmation when my eyes met his. He had this big ass smile on his face, but his eyebrows were furrowed, and he was taken aback.

I twisted my lips to the side and rolled my eyes.

He drew back with a light chuckle. “Damn! The hell I do to you?”

Exist.

That’s what you did. I wish they all would just... go.

The world would be a better place without them in it. Couple years ago, I’d laugh at a statement like that, but no... seriously. I believed it. All I needed was either a fully charged rose or wand. Men were pointless. Women are smart as fuck; we’d figure out how to procreate without them.

Shit.

I ran my freehand over my disheveled hair with a sigh. Not because I gave a flying fuck about fixing the way I looked for his ass. But because I was becoming one of them. That woman who bunched all men together because they had been hurt by a few. I didn’t want to become that. There were some good men in the world. I only knew a couple of ‘em. They deserved to be here. Mr. Mills... Jahad.... Umm.

That was all I had. Sadly.

I eyed Chase up and down. Maybe he could exist too. I didn’t know him. He was aight, I guess. He hadn’t done shit to be exiled. Not to me, at least.

Still, I didn’t say anything to him. Just walked off, back into the house. Instead of sitting on the couch, I decided to take my food upstairs. I was due for a change of scenery. What I needed to do was to leave the house all together, but I was in no mood for human interaction. I was... shit, I was a lot of things. But at the moment, I was hungry, so I grabbed the bottle of wine I’d been drinking from all day and carried it upstairs right along with my food.

“Thank you,” I said to the Uber driver, as I climbed out of his car.

The next day, I woke up and decided I couldn’t spend another fucking day staring at those walls in that big ass house. I was at Tipsy Tap Tavern, some hole in the wall bar, about five minutes from my house. Yep, in the suburbs. I had never been inside but by the name, the area, and the big bellied white man passed out front on an old, rustic bench, I was about ninety-nine, point nine percent sure that the men that frequented this place would be alcoholics and the least bit concerned about approaching my black ass. That was exactly what I was going for when I got dressed earlier. Nothing about me said I was looking for a man. I had on a charcoal grey oversized pull over hoodie, black leggings, and combat boots, no makeup and my natural hair was pulled up into a bun.

When I walked into the bar, I wasn’t surprised to see that there was a serious melanin deficiency. The aesthetic was just what I would expect from a bar with a drunk passed out on the bench outside of it: dim, gloomy, and rustic. Budweiser, Harley Davidson, and old school Sports Illustrated posters lined the dark wood paneled walls.

I peeled my jacket off and sat it on the barstool before sitting on the stool beside it. Propping my elbow on the bar, I rested my chin on the back of my knuckles to take in the scenery. The first thing I did was look for me. We all did it when we walked into predominately white spaces. Look for one of us. Black folk. Family. There were only three of us and one was the bartender. The woman, she was three stools down.

We made eye contact and she smiled at me. “Hey,” she sang, the way we do when we’re surprised to see one of us.

“Hey,” I greeted with a smile of my own. Then she went back to scrolling on her phone, and I went back to looking around.

Right after, the bartender—the fine ass bartender might I add—looked up from the customer he was serving and gave me a bright smile and a head nod. I smiled and threw my hand up with a wave. Like before, he went back to working, and my ass went right back to being nosey.

It was a little busy. I could tell that most of the people dropped in right after work. Loose ties dangled from the necks of a group of laughing men at a table, surrounded by a plethora of beer mugs. The blonde waitress serving them wore that uncomfortable smile. You know. The one women wear when we’re in comfortable situations we can’t get out of because of sacrifice and responsibility. It was confirmed when she walked away with an eyeroll only I caught.

“Wassup, mama? What can I get you?” The bartender greeted with a chipped tooth smile, leaning over on the bar top.

Well, I’d be damn. He looked better up-close. Of course he did. The sandy brown locs were a dead giveaway. And he had the nerve to have them up in a bun. The locs, and the tattoos covering both his arms told me I needed to find another bar to go to. I was here to get drunk and go home. Not get drunk, fuck the fine ass bartender in the restroom, and then go home.

But then I remembered.

She didn’t work for anybody but him.

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