We sit at a round table. I can see all their faces at all times. They’re different shades of colorful browns except for the white man on his phone who looks like one of his ancestors could have once been addressed as Massa.
We’re in different time zones, Mr Black and I. He’s an insomniac manic. I sleep deep at night. I’m only awoken by the seizure my brother is having. It happens infrequently. Mr Black is frustratingly unresponsive during the day.
Different fragrant vials of melanin. They laugh so loosely and the words are mumbled and chewed and sung with their black heads knocked back. Belly laughs that tickle an intrusive admirer. A warm brotherhood. Massa is still on his phone. I don’t think he’s ever noticed the beauty of their talk. It feels like something traditional brought with them to freedom that should be kept secret but is so beautifully exposed yet ignored by ignorants like Massa.
I’ve grown kind of desperate. I telephone Mr Black but he never picks up. I’ve thought of replacing him. But, they leave me wanting more. I’ve considered sleeping with Mr Black in real life. I’d have to meet him first. Maybe, someday, squirrel boy could love him with more than just a keyboard.