Page 7 of Falling Into Gravity

“Aight then, don’t get locked up, then!”

They laughed, and so did he, pulling off and turning down a street lined with houses painted in faded colors and hope. Crescent Park had its cracks, but Malik moved through it like it still held gold.

His next stop was a block away. He parked and leaned over to the passenger side, grabbing the brown baggie from the glove compartment. Inside was a sealed jar, the kind of gas that made folks come from all corners of the city just to tap in. He kept everything tight—nothing loose, nothing sloppy.

His long frame crawled out of the car before he made his way to the front door.

He knocked twice on the screen door.

A woman answered, already digging in her bra for folded bills. “My cousin said you the one with the fire.”

Malik chuckled. “He told no lies.”

She handed him the money. He handed over the product and just like that he was back in the car, pulling off smooth like he was never there.

His drops never lasted too long. That’s how niggas got hemmed up.

His hands tightened on the wheel as he made his way deeper south, creeping into territory he didn’t love driving through.

The street names changed. So did the murals. So did the way his gut started talking to him.

He reached under the seat real quick and patted the cool metal of the Glock tucked in its usual spot…just in case.

He wasn’t trying to be paranoid, but this neighborhood was a little too close to his opps. He was still active, justmoved differently now, but he wasn’t invisible either, and folks remembered everything.

Still, his boy lived here. Reese was a loyal customer. More than that—he was family in a strange, unspoken way.

They used to run together, before Reese’s flag turned red.

Malik pulled into the driveway and parked. The porch light flickered like it was halfway through. The screen door opened before he even made it up the steps.

“What up, Malik?”

The street name ‘Key’ didn’t live between them.

The man standing there was taller now, stockier too. Hair grown out and a red tee that used to mean something more.

“What up, Reese,” Malik said, bumping fists with him and stepping inside.

The house smelled like incense and hardwood. Reese had a little girl now—her crayon drawings were taped to the fridge, and a pink backpack was tossed near the couch.

“You good?” Reese asked, motioning for him to sit.

“Always,” Malik lied.

Reese caught it, but didn’t press.

He handed Malik a few bills. “I don’t even smoke much no more. But sometimes, the world too loud to face sober.”

“I feel that.” He ran his hand down his braids.

They sat in silence for a second just breathing.

“You ever think about it?” Reese asked, without looking up.

Malik didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor, jaw clenched. “All the time,” he finally muttered. How could he forget something that he saw multiple times a day. Malik wasn’t Reese… the streets didn’t dictate who he could fuck with based on their flag. Maybe that was why the Ogs gave him the hardest time when he was growing up.

Reese nodded. “I ain’t never gon’ forget that night.”

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