After nine years of being attached at the hip, Lyric and Prince finally split. Now, on the road to recovery, she learns a new way to view life as Prince is forced to face the music of a song he never wanted to played aloud. Join them as they learn a...
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November 24, 1992 Minneapolis, Minnesota
Quinn comes walking, as close to full speed as her pregnant body allows her, right in my direction. I loved coming to Minnesota. I made plenty of friends in the singular year I lived here. "Hey, baby!" I shout as she comes flying into my arms, greeting me with a kiss on my cheek.
"Oh, you look so good!"
Our warm embrace comes with a tight squeeze as we let go. I am allowed to fully take in Quinn's pregnancy. Close to her third trimester, her abdomen is rounded out in the shame of a dome. Her shoulder length black hair is perfectly pressed, as healthy and bouncy as they come. Her smile is wide enough to place a replica on my face.
"And so do you," I squeal.
Quinn settles at our reserved table. I'm not in Minnesota until I have a meal with Quinta DuBois. Her big heart and unconditional optimism ground me in positivity. I have a hard time remembering the exact first time Quinn and I met. There is a blurring of lines between Morris introducing me and Prince bringing her around. Aside from myself, she's the only woman I've heard Prince say was like his sister and believed him. Since they were in the first grade, they've been tight, and since I was 23-years-old, we've been tight.
"I saw your BET special last night," giggles Quinn. "I didn't know people called you Cindy when you were young. That's wild! You don't even look like a Cindy."
Scratching my left arm, I laugh at the reveal made. "Yeah," I chuckle, head dropping, as I glance around my environment. Buffy's absence is noticeable as she sits back at the hotel, reworking my upcoming schedule. "I thought I told you that!"
"No," she insists. "That's so... You really don't look like a Cindy." She gently thanks the waiter setting down a water in front of her with a lighthearted half-smile. "Guess who I saw the other day."
My smile falls flat, foreseeing the direction of her statement.
Eyes wandering in search of a fuck to give about her painfully obvious ploy of redirecting me into a direction she deems fitting. I ask, "Who?" A stoic glare overshadows my blank tone.
"Morris," she reveals with an unwavering smile. "Stop assuming it's always about The Great Gazoo, okay?"
I slide past her sly comment. She's pushing it. "What's Morris doing here?" Interest in my eyes, I giggle at the thought of the man who vowed to never return to Minneapolis visiting so often in the last three years.
It's nice to see Morris having himself together again. For a minute, he was a total mess even when nobody noticed. The Time broke up and he decided he was going solo. Then, he fell out with Prince, who ran around taking shots at Morris the entire tour following their split... A tour I was a part of. It was exhausting. I didn't like it. Soon, they made up but those two are hot and cold, or maybe it's just Prince. He and Morris made up twice to fall out three more times. These days, I don't what kind of terms they're on.
