Getting to the Good Part

by Lolita Files

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Reesy Snowden & Misty Fine have been friends since childhood. Misty's work life is thriving & she has found Mr. Right at last. Although Reesy's trying to be happy for her friend, she is troubled by this intrusion into the one friendship that has always come first for both women. Nonetheless, Reesy's dreams of a dance career have become reality & she is also seeing a man who might be a keeper. Unfortunately, her self-destructive tendencies threaten to destroy her, until true love & friendship save the day.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

GETTING TO THE GOOD PART…

“With its deliberate accessibility, stylistic strength, and emotional force, GETTING TO THE GOOD PART takes us on a surrealistic
journey into a world brilliantly characterized by Lolita Files.”


—Philadelphia New Observer

“Entertaining along its tour of New York’s hot spots and the candid close-up of the inner world of two girlfriends…. Files
gives the novel a solid stamp of reality.”


—Black Issues Book Review

“Reesy Snowden is a sister with a certain sumthin’ sumthin’ and Lolita Files does an incredible job of weaving yet another
spin on [her] often chaotic life. Writing in her ever-funny and sassy way, Lolita layers the complexities of friendship when
love takes center stage.”


—Sharony Andrews Green, author of Cuttin’ the Rug under the Moonlit Sky

“A ‘must-read’… Lolita Files is a master at telling it like it is. Her writing is romantic, sexy, and, well—just plain hilarious.”

—Kimberla Lawson Roby, author of Behind Closed Doors

“Feisty and candid.”

—Library Journal

“Funny and energetic and will keep you hanging on to the very end… . Lolita has surpassed all the hype her work has received
and has taken GETTING TO THE GOOD PART to another level.”


—Franklin White, author of Fed Up with the Fanny

“Lolita once again presents laugh-out-loud humor about the relationships between best friends and the survival of their emotional
gymnastics. I love this story because I know it well!”


—LaJoyce Brookshire, author of Soul Food

“Written in Lolita Files’s uniquely frank and fresh voice.”

—Lisa Saxton, author of Caught in a Rundown

“Spunky… energetic… a tale of the adventures of two cosmopolitan women of spirit and passion.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A sassy, rollicking tale.”

—Miami Herald

“Irresistibly readable… hilarious. A highly entertaining debut… [a] light, ribald satire. Striking characters, sexy action,
a breakneck pace, and laugh-out-loud humor… [and] dialogue that crackles with energy. Misty and Reesy are memorable and likeable
characters, and their interactions with men linger in the mind like hot gossip.”


—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“Files is one author who’s no joke with the pen and pad—the girl is BAD. If I were you, I’d pick up a copy, because a story
as good as this won’t stay on the shelf for long.”


—La Vida News

“Solid writing… Files has an excellent ear for dialogue… . She develops characters with the best of them… . This is a good
book. Like I said, the sistah can write.”


—Atlanta Metro

“Laugh-out-loud funny… an outrageously funny romp… . An entertaining story about two thirty-something, dynamic, professional
black women who make no bones about wanting it all and go to extremes to get it… . Treat yourself.”


—Dayton Daily News

“Ladies, Scenes from a Sistah is a must-read. It’s funny, sexy, and a book you and your girlfriends can truly relate to.”


—Terrie Williams, president and founder, The Terrie Williams Agency, and author of The Personal Touch

“Scenes from a Sistah is as sexy and exciting as it is real and emotional. Lolita’s words sing the songs of so many sistahs too often silenced
in the expression of their eroticism. What a refreshing change of pace. Sing on, my sistah.”


—Jill Tracey, entertainment reporter, Tom Joyner Morning Show

First of all, I say “Thank God” for blessing me with the opportunity to realize my own possibilities, and, therefore, so many
of my dreams.


Secondly, to all those wonderful people who have always been in my corner, to those who recently discovered my corner and
parked themselves there to cheer for me, and to those who root from the sidelines… I give you love up front. Just in case
I fail to mention you by name, know that I have infinite appreciation for all you have done for me.


Special thanks to:

Cecil D. Rolle—for all the initial enthusiasm and support that helped get me on my way.


Jackie Jacob at Warner Books—a multi-talented wonder who was there for me from the very beginning. I’m glad I can call you my friend.


Jacquatte Rolle—for bearing with me on this journey of self-discovery; for staying fixed and ever-present.


Michael Cory Davis—the coolest discovery I’ve had in 1998 (okay… so it was actually the end of 1997, but I’m rounding up). Thanks for being
the a2 to my b2. As a result, we’re creating a whole lotta c2’s. Here’s to more screenwriting together, to making movies, to more Falmouths and Ft. Lees, to sitcoms and big budgets, to
cross-countries and El Segundo-ing. For being my creative match.


Maxwell—’nuf said ’bout you, so “don’t ever wonder.” You already know I think you’re THE BOMB on a grand scale. You be inspiring
people to write books and stuff. Keep making that fantastic music… I just might squeeze out a few books more!!


Lillie & Arthur Files, Sr., Arthur Files, Jr., Eric A. Brackett, the Brackett and the Files clans, Carolyn Brackett (the most
positive-minded person I know), Mary and Willie Davis (and the whole Atlanta clan), Sharlyn Simon (Big Up, Doug!!!), the Rolle
Clan (Dr. Cecil & Annie Rolle, Gary & Katrina and family, Angie & Tony and family, and Jenifer, Melanie, Justin and my Goddie,
Courtney), Jenean Amber (’zupgirlfriend!!), The Davis Family in Brooklyn, Lisa “Brownie” Brown, Kim and Cody, Bryan Keith Ayer, Suzette Webb, Jonathan and Julian,
Antoine Coffer and my “Live Twin” Teresa Coffer of Afrocentric Books in St. Louis, Cheryl, Doris, Michelle, Taura, and Cassandra
at Warner Books, Clara Villarosa for taking me under your wing the way you have, Marty & Monique Fleming-Berg of BCA Books
(& Dinky), Shonda Cheekes and the rest of the clan—Moms, Calina and Ramzari (my babeez), and Warren, R. Malcolm Jones and
family.


E. Lynn Harris—for being a Godfather to us all, and all my author friends—Eric Jerome Dickey (twin), Omar Tyree, Victoria
Christopher Murray (my girl), LaJoyce Brookshire (my Libra sistah… ’zup, Gus and Tony!!), Franklin White, Blair S. Walker (you nut!!), Kimberla Lawson Roby, Van Whitfield, David Haynes, Lisa Saxton, Sheneska Jackson,
and Sharony Andrews—for this great bond that we have created amongst us. We all have each other’s backs. This is the way it’s
supposed to be.


Jill Tracey, Karla Greene, Troy & Rejeana Mathis, Eric Saunders, Rod Crouther, Lee Eric Smith, Rodney & Johnika Lee, Brenda
Alexander & Family, Frank Jenkins and Family, Harry C. Douglas, Jr. and the Douglas clan (Pamela, Willie Mae, and Harry, Sr.
and Rachel), Sherlina, Brenda, Vernette, Rhonda and Michael Ware, Mommy German, the Brown Family, the May-weathers, The Williams,
Bernadette Andrews and family, Andrea and Patrick, and all the old crews, Dr. Joseph Marshall, Jr., Christine Saunders, Carol
Ozemhoya, Kim Bondy, Bo Griffin, Yvette Miley, Olive Salih and Alison Tomlinson, Pamela Crockett, KathyAnn Saleem (where are
you?), Leroy Baylor, Michel Marriott, Kevin Cowan, Darryl “Double D” Davis, Louis Oliver, Abdul Giwa, Jr. M.D., Bruce McCrear
& the B’ham Crew, Bryonn Rolly Bains, Dedan Baylor and the whole Baylor clan at Make My Cake.


The Florida Connection—Janet Mosley of Tenaj Books, Jackie Perkins at Montsho, Felecia Wintons at Books for Thought, Naseem
Barron at Nefertiti, D.C. at Afro-n-Books-n-Things, and Akbar at Pyramid Books.


Shondalon and Sundyata Ramin of RaMin Books in New Brunswick, N.J., Shelly and David Jones of Mirror Images Books and Toys
in Charleston, S.C., Faye Williams and Cassandra Burton of Sisterspace & Books, Kiki Henson.


My editor Caryn Karmatz Rudy, Nancy Coffey, my Warner publicist—Anita Diggs, Larry Kirshbaum for all the love and support,
Pat Houser, Yvette Hayward, The Sorors of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc., and all the book clubs that have supported me,
and continue to do so every day.


Check baby, check baby, one-two-three-four! Check baby, check baby, one-two-three!”

My heart was percolating like my grandma’s raggedy old coffeepot as I chanted the words to Wreckx-N-Effect song “Rump-shaker.”
It was booming all around me, pouring from the speaker system.


The sound echoed throughout the empty theater, blending with the crazed patter of dancing feet moving with synchronized rhythm
across the much-scuffed wood floor of the stage.


There weren’t a lot of frills in the Nexus Theater. Nestled on West Twentieth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, it was
a tiny little thing that was a far cry from the glitz and glimmer I’d anticipated.


There were none of the dramatic red velvet curtains and elegant balconies I envisioned would serve as backdrops for my grand
stage debut. The place was hollow and naked.


Strictly utilitarian. About as bottom-line as you could get.

Plain wooden seats, a stage, a no-nonsense curtain that was just a few threads shy of being deemed burlap, some random fixtures
here and there, and the obligatory backstage area.


It was all prop and circumstance. If circumstances called for props, then that’s when you got ‘em. Otherwise, the place was
as scaled-down and threadbare as they came. Just a few steps above the size and status of a high school auditorium.


(Okay, maybe it was a little bit bigger. But damn, not a whole lot.)


I glanced out in the direction of the empty audience seats as I made my moves. All I could see were the shadows of three men.
Who were they, and what were they thinking?


I didn’t care. My adrenaline was blowing up.

I boogied across the stage. Sweat trickled down my body, streaming over my teeny-weeny deep blue tank top and working its
way down the small of my back. My spandex shorts clung to every curve of my perfectly tight booty, and I was waving it ‘round
for all the world to see. My clothes were discreetly, provocatively, sweaty in all the right places.


I couldn’t have planned it any better.

I wanted to get the part in this production bad. Real bad. If I got it, it meant a whole new life change for me. I was going
to try my hand at dancing for the stage, maybe even Broadway.


What was I talking about? Bump maybe… definitely Broadway!! Why would I stop at just a small-scale production? Hell, I’m Reesy. Everything I do is over-the-top.


And if I was going to try my hand at this, it was going to be over-the-top, or not at all.

Not that this was going to be a small-scale gig. I mean, if I got the part, it was going to be a pretty big deal.

But it wasn’t Broadway. That was still a loooong ways away.


There were two parts up for grabs, and there were six other women dancing alongside me, all of us shaking our asses like our
lives depended on it. But, as far as I was concerned, those heffahs weren’t even there.


It was all about me. I was gonna get one of these roles, dammit, if it was the last thing I ever did.


Still singing in my head, I zooma-zoomed in the poon-poon.

I worked my hips and wiggled my butt as I gyrated across the stage, adding my own little flava (The Reesy Special, I like
to call it) to the routine the choreographer had taught us to do to the music. I had this way of letting my body go, as flexible
as an overcooked noodle, while I got into the groove. This shit was a workout, but I was getting a helluva rush out of it.


I had my back bent, leaning forward, slanging my braids all around my head. Right on cue, I spun around booty-forward, back
still bent, and began to wiggle again.


Buttcheeks for dayz.

And from watching the body language of the shadowy male figures that sat in the audience grading our performances, I could
see that it was working.


Considering the way one of them had been crossing and uncrossing his legs, something sure as hell had to be going on.

And yes, it was me causing the effect. I had no doubt about that. Sure, those other girls were bad, but wasn’t nobody up there working it
quite like me. I could feel it.


No telling what they had been scribbling on their lethal pads with those loaded pens. But whether they liked me or not, I
was gonna make damn sure I got a rise out of their asses.


My endorphins doing the bump. I felt like I was about to spontaneously combust.

“That’ll be it, number three.”

I worked my shoulders downward, ass jiggling like Jell-O in the mold.

“Number three, thank you.”

I zooma-zoomed on, singing away in my head.

“Number three, you can go now!”


The girl to my left elbowed me discreetly.

“They’re talking to you,” she smirked.

Sneaky heffah. She was just trying to distract me and make me mess up. I ignored her and kept dancing.


I did my thang, sliding to the side along to the music, my arms waving around over my head in a hula-like dance that had me
adding way more hip than the choreographer had planned.


“NUMBER THREE!!”


I sang on under my breath, wiggling my behind.

I was still grooving when the music came to a sudden stop. I was dancing hard, in the zone. I didn’t notice right away that
I was the only one moving on stage. My body was racing ahead so fast, that it took all my brain could muster to send it the
message to stop. I leaned forward, my hands on my thighs, panting heavily.


The girl who had elbowed me was standing there next to me, staring. She had her hand on her hip. Her mouth was now wide open
in a mocking grin. Beside her, the other girls huddled, some of them shaking their heads. A couple of them were laughing.


“Number three?” a heavy voice boomed from the shadows of the theater seats.

I looked down at the piece of white paper stuck to my tank top. A big 3, scrawled in black Magic Marker, stared back up at
me.


Oh shit! I thought. They want me!

“Yes?!” I panted excitedly.

“That’s enough,” the voice said dismissively. “Thank you for coming.”

His words didn’t register at first.

“Thank you,” he repeated.


“That’s it?” I gasped, barely able to breathe from the energy rush I had created. My heart was thumping like it was about to explode.


“We’ll call you,” he said, sounding as empty as I did when I told my random lies to used-up lovers on the phone.

Now ain’t this some shit?!!?!! I thought.


Let me tell you something… I ain’t nevah been dismissed from nothing. I was the one who did the dismissing.


Even when I left Burch Financial, my last job, where I worked as an administrative assistant for my best friend, Misty Fine,
it was my decision. I wasn’t fired.


But enough about that. We’ll talk about that later.


Standing there on that stage, giving the audition of my life, hoping to find some new direction as a dancer in the theater,
I was now mortified. How the hell were they gon’ single me out from everybody else and tell me to get the hell out?


Those other bitches stood over there, smirks on their faces, just staring at me.

I started to cuss ’em out, but, lucky for them, I was so out of breath, I was barely able to speak.


I rushed over to the side of the stage, grabbed my duffel bag, and fled.

On my way out, I saw the guy who had asked me to come to the audition. He had invited me because he liked the way I danced
at the audition for Bubbling Brown Sugar, the first audition I’d gone to after leaving the corporate world.


He was definitely the last person I wanted to see.


“Thanks for coming out,” he said with a smile, his hand touching my back as I passed.

“Yeah,” I replied shortly.

“Don’t look so sad,” he said. “It’s all good.”

“Whatever,” I snapped, just trying to get past him and out of the place.


I shoved open the heavy steel back door that led out of the Nexus. In my hurry to get out, the strap of my duffel bag got
caught on the outside door handle.


As I struggled to free it, my eyes gravitated upward to the white flyer taped to the door.

Black Barry’s Pie Auditions.


I managed to get my bag free and hurried out onto Twentieth Street. I didn’t even want to acknowledge what just went on in
there.


I walked across Twentieth toward Sixth Avenue, barely aware of what was going on around me or the people that I passed.

Damn!! What made me even think I was good enough to be picked?


Misty was right. I was crazy for thinking I could jump my ass into a theatrical production, just like that. With no experience. Who the hell did I think
I was, anyway?


Misty was the career girl. She was the one who got all the breaks. I must have been outta my mind to think that something
like this was just going to happen for me.


I kept walking. I was humiliated, sweaty and stank. I could smell every orifice of my funky, sticky body.

I frantically waved for a cab, heading uptown on Sixth Avenue.

One slowed down and was about to pull up alongside the curb.

The man took one long look at me, standing there like a two-dollar hoe in my sweaty clothes, and kept on going.

Shit.


This was not my day.

•    •    •

Finally, one guy pulled over and picked my sorry ass up.

His cab reeked of curry, and his black turban was so wide and so tall that, once I got in the car, it blocked my entire view
of the left side of the street ahead.


The turban was wrapped tightly, and just kind of teetered and tilted, as if, at any given moment, it was going to topple over
and take his head right along with it.


“Wearrr-do?” he grumbled in an Indian accent, rolling his tongue thickly over his r’s.


“West Seventy-fifth and Amsterdam,” I sighed, sinking back into the torn-up seats of his funky cab. “The Milano building.”

The cabbie zapped the meter and sped off from the curb.

His cab was so raggedy on the inside, it’s a wonder I was even able to sit on the seats without getting a shredded ass from
the cut-up leather.


He turned up the radio and began singing this wack-ass Hindu song. Loud. Like he was crazy. Like I wasn’t eeemuch in the car.


He weaved and bobbed through the heavy traffic, working his head and the Tower-of-Pisa turban to the music.

I leaned forward and looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Around his neck, he wore a Star of David.

What the… ?!

Surprised, I quickly glanced at his ID, which was openly displayed on the visor of the passenger side of the front seat.

Mustafa Klein, it read.


“Damn!” I squealed, laughing out loud for the first time that day. “New York is sooooooo fucked up!!”


He continued to ignore me, happily singing and bobbing away.

I collapsed back on the seat again, a smile still lingering on my lips.

Not for long, though. As the cab raced its way uptown, I sat there trying to block out the details of my embarrassing audition.
Most unsuccessfully.


I kept seeing the look on the face of the chick who tried to get me to stop dancing, skinning and grinning at me as I made
a fool of myself on stage.


Dang!! A chill ran through me and my skin flushed.

Nothing… well, almost nothing… embarrassed me. But this was bad. I couldn’t block it out.


I kept seeing that heffah’s jeering expression.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I muttered. “Damn! If Tyrene only knew how I messed this one up!”


Tyrene is my mom.

And, check this out: my dad’s name is Tyrone.


I know, I know… that’s about as goofy as it gets, but I don’t even try to understand it. It’s one of those situations where you figure
two people were just made for each other, from their names on down.


They were two vulgarly rich, black-as-they-wanna-be attorneys who ruled the world (and the law firm their thrones sat at the
helm of) with an iron fist.


Between their two names, they came up with mine… Teresa.

I know—the obvious, ghetto thang for them to have done was name me Tyreoné (with an accent… gots to have the accent at the end).


But my folks ain’t never had no parts of the ghetto in ’em.

I was their only child. The one they tried to mold into their image. The one they threw money at with both hands, in the hopes
that I would conform to their ways of thinking.


The one on whose shoulders they rested the fate of Western civilization as they knew it.

I called my parents by their first names to let them know they could not rule me or force me to carry the weight of the world
on my back. Calling them Tyrone and Tyrene was a habit I established long ago, which they indulged at first.


They actually thought it was quite cute, coming from their outspoken little yellow-faced daughter, running around in her dashiki
with her head full of braids. The two of them always smiled when I referred to them in my strong, but tiny, little voice,
as Tyrone and Tyrene in front of company.


After a while, as I grew older (and more rebellious), they began to be annoyed by it, and that mess got old. But, by then,
it was too late to make me change. We were officially on a first-name basis.


At this stage of their lives, and mine, I could truly say they hated me addressing them that way with a passion.

Yeah. If Tyrene knew about my attempt, and failure, to make my mark in the Big Apple, she would be right up here, giving me an
earful. Handing me a check. Demanding that I come back home to Fort Lauderdale.


Telling me to stop being so foolish and do something meaningful with my life.

Damn!! Maybe she was right. Perhaps I did need to get a grip and move on to something normal.


I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths to try to relax myself and clear my head. That diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-ding-ding music piping through the car didn’t help me at all. Neither did all the squawking coming from the kosher swami in front of
me as he tried to sing along.


What I needed was some Maxwell.


I could just see him now, looking all sexy on the back of his first CD—my favorite, with that crazy head of tangled hair,
turning me on with one of his sexy tunes.


It would be even better if I could actually throw down with Maxwell while he was crooning to me. Yeah. Wouldn’t that just make everything all right?


So what, every hot-blooded sistah in America was probably jonesin’ for him, just like me? A girl can dream, can’t she?

Misty didn’t feel it when I got into my Maxwell mode, but she was weird anyway.

She obsessed over Denzel.

Pleeeeez.


Denzel ain’t have nuthin’ on the Blackarican Lover.


Misty said Maxwell was too young for me (another giveaway that she was way too conservative for my tastes sometimes).


Too young? Please. Youth was insurance that the sex would be even more thorough. Besides, all the books said that men reached their
sexual peak way earlier than women. The way I saw it, me and Maxwell (sexually speaking, that is) were perfectly matched.


Just thinking about Maxwell made the ol’ Bermuda Triangle itch a little. Which, in turn, made me unconsciously rub my thighs
together. Which, in turn, made me aware that my shorts were kinda sweaty in the front.


Which, of course, reminded me of that fiasco of an audition.


“Great,” I mumbled, my eyes still closed. “There’s just no escaping this.”

The car hit something, a bump in the road, or the curb for all I knew, as it careened recklessly through traffic. My eyes
popped open just as we were passing Forty-ninth Street and the neon red lights of Radio City Music Hall.


I thought about the Rockettes. As a kid, I’d always wanted to be a black Rockette. Have my fast ass up there on that stage,
flashing my tight, toned gams at the world as I kicked ’em high for all to see.


Guess that dream was a long ways off.


I sighed, and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes once more.

The simultaneous sound of smacking and the smell of something rank made me abruptly open them again.

Homie drove using one hand and ate furiously with the other. We weaved and bobbed, barely missing other cabs and cars struggling
to get through traffic.


“Excuuuuuse me!” I shouted. “What is that you’re eating?”


“Wdut?!”


“What are you eating?! Whatever it is, it’s making me sick!”

“This?” he asked, waving his hand in the air.

“Get that out my face!”


“You ask. I show. Is gefilte fish. Is good. You want try?”

“No! Just get me the hell home!”


Swami Klein turned back around, tossing the piece of fish into his mouth.

I was thrilled as hell when we finally pulled up in front of my building.

“Five seventy-five,” the Swami declared, announcing the total, not even turning around to look at me.

“I’m gonna need my change back,” I said flatly, handing him a ten.

“Sure,” Mustafa said happily, finally turning around. He smiled, taking the ten out of my hand with his gefilte fish fingers.

He grabbed another piece of fish and quickly tossed it into his mouth. Then he reached into a zippered bag he had on the seat
beside him. The smile still plastered on his face, he offered me four one-dollar bills and a quarter. I looked down at the
money.


The bills were wet with gefilte fish from his fingers, and so was the change.

That muthafucka. Ol’ slick-ass Mustafa.


“Just keep it,” I grumbled, wondering how my day could get any worse. Was the whole world determined to screw me?

I exited the cab in a digusted huff. I was barely out of the car before Mustafa sped off, in search of another fool.

Len, the doorman, was standing there in front of the apartment building, cheesing at me like a hungry rat.

“Having a good day so far, Miss Snowden?”

I was so annoyed, I didn’t even bother to answer.

I swept past him, into the lobby, and rushed on to the elevators.

I pressed the Up button, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long of a wait.

To my relief, the elevator doors opened immediately.

I quickly stepped inside.

The doors squeezed shut, and the elevator whisked me away.

I found myself wishing I could be like Charlie Puckett, in that scene from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where he and Willie sped up in the elevator, bust through the glass roof, and shot off, clean out into the stratosphere.


As wack as my day had been, I wouldn’t have minded being shot out into space. Not one little bit.



I knew Misty wasn’t home, but I really needed to talk to her.

She was a corporate bigwig. Misty worked every day of the week, and half the night sometimes.

Or so she said. Of late, I’d been having my doubts about what she was doing with her nights. Something about the way she’d been behaving
smacked of being a little bit more involved than just working late.


Tired and frustrated, I stepped off the elevator and trudged down the tiled art deco corridor, groping in my bag for my keys.
By the time I reached the door to our apartment, I was mentally deflated and in desperate need of a place to just fold up
and hide.


I fumbled with the lock for a second or two, then lazily pushed against the door with all my body weight.

I tossed my duffel bag to the side as I walked through the pale beige marble foyer. It was old marble in an old building,
but it was elegant nonetheless.


I beat a path across the room. I knew exactly what I needed, and made a beeline for it straightaway.

Our living room was a series of warm browns and russets, rusts and golds. The floor was an endless, sprawling expanse of deep
rich hardwood. And we had a view of Central Park, that was, baby, simply to die for.


The walls were the color of butter. It was such a welcoming tone that it immediately set your mood when you walked into the
room.


There was a big cushy armchair made from a soft and velvety rust-colored material. It was Misty’s personal favorite.

The matching sofa was my spot. Made from the same fabric, it was all pillows and comfort, and had served as a bed for me on
many a night I was just too damn lazy to crawl to my room.


Our black art covered every possible square inch of wall space. It was like a gallery in there, with her Frank Fraziers and
Art Bacons dominating the east wall, and my Varnette Honeywoods and Leroy Campbells dominating the west.


The works of Charles Bi