Lighter Shade of Brown (Urban Fiction) BWHM

Chapter 10

By the time she made it home and slipped the spare key into the dead bolt on the door, the sun was cresting the northeast building of Messalina projects. Pushing the door she stepped inside, glancing around the small apartment with a heavy heart that felt as if it was one beat away from bursting. The mess, which greeted her eyes, was a comfort, to her overworked mind. A dirty house didn't require much mental effort to get the job done. No, it took elbow grit. Elbow grit that she was more than happy to give, despite the burning ache in her muscles. She rolled her shoulders, deciding to start in the kitchen first, and then work her way back from there.

Cleo cleared the dishes from the sink, stacking them on the counter beside the drain. Once the basin was empty, she switched on the tap, filling the sink with hot water and dishwashing liquid. After the dish water was prepared, she loaded the glasses and cups. Grabbing the rag from where it hung on the faucet, she began to wash the dishes in earnest, picking up a rhythmic tempo, while she went. Washing, rinsing, and then stacking, that was her system until every cup, plate, silverware, pot and pan were washed, dried and put away in their respective places in the cabinet. Wide open, like a G on mission she attacked the counter with such ferocity, she damn near rubbed a hole in the dish rag.

For the next couple of hours she battled the apartment as if it had sexed her man and owed her money, and it worked. It had kept her mind occupied with tedious details. That was until she got fly and turned on Liberty's boom box. She thought listening to music while she cleaned, would help to keep her mental off of all things related to him. The one who shall not be named. It worked too, for a while. Then the first chords of the instrumental to a song she associated with him and him alone, reached down into her chest cavity and snatched all the air from her expanded lungs. She gasped for a viable breath as the living room carpet blurred. Before she had the chance to recover from Force MD's assault, TCD started to wail the first verse of, Tender Love. A pain ripped her so deep it tore fist sized chunks from her already tattered soul. Her knees buckled, but she tightened her grip on the vacuum cleaner, forcing her legs to remain upright. Pictures of his devilish smirk, forged war on her psyche until her heart surrendered and betrayed her still combatting brain. God! Why did it hurt so much? Exactly, what had she done to deserve this type of agony? Clutching her chest, she stumbled toward the front door, and barreled out of the screen, to drop down on the stone steps outside.

Burying her face in her knees, she allowed the sobs to wrack her body and the tears to run unchecked. Too weak to do anything else, but drown in the conflicting emotions that was determined to drag her under to its bottomless depths. Damn. Where had that come from? The pain of losing him, was turning her into one of those crusty old poets her English teacher had made the class read. The ones who didn't mind eating a bullet when the girl they were sweating dissed their corny asses. Sniffing back the snot in her nose, she patted her face dry with the heel of her hands. He had played her enough, she be damn if she played herself too. Still unable to lift her head and confront the stretch of her existence without...him. She continued to cover her face, shutting out the ratchet ass scene of the Ninth, and the blatant reminder that it was not the Circle. Dang. Not even eight hours strong and she already missed him like he'd been sent down south on a ten year bid.

Fresh tears stung her eyes. How would she survive this? The ache in her soul, transformed into a sucking black hole, consuming hope, peace, and comfort how a gang of fat chicks would descend upon a buffet on an empty stomach. Wide open and holding nothing back. A hand placed flat between her shoulder blades, made her jump like Kris Kross. Her palms fell away, and her blurry vision greedily gulped down her intruder. A wealth of dreadlocks, and flawless dark chocolate brown skin greeted her stunned stare. Tech? Now what the hell did he want? To tell her more shit about him? Well he shouldn't have wasted his time. She already knew the dirty low down on, he who shall not be named. First f-ing hand!