Ruin

13

LUCAS P. O. V.
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Monday: 3:30 P. M.
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My muscles flex under the weight of the barbells.

We've been at the gym for thirty minutes, but I still can't seem to get into the groove.

Petrad is behind me, waiting to take the bar as I bring it up.

I finally do, and he takes it and attaches it to the rack.

"Dawg, yuh look like yuh out of it today, man!" he says as I sit up and wipe my chalky hands in the towel.

"Hmmm..." I mutter. "Nuh know wah gwaan wid mi today."

It's true. Normally, me doing a bench press would come like lifting paper, but, today, the weights feel like lead in my arms.

"It nuh have nothing to do with how yuh run out a the place last night?" he asks sounding genuinely concerned.

Even though he gets on my damn nerves sometimes, Petrad is cool. He and Dwayne, a.k.a Nyama, are two of the closest brethrens I keep in my tiny circle.

I don't have time for the bag a wasteman company.

He's referring to when we'd met in the parking lot, last night, after the whole incident with her at Café Noir.

I shake my head, but make him no wiser. I don't want him to feel some type of way, even when I don't even fucking know how I feel. "No man. Nutt'n like that. Just inna a one vibe weh mi a try shake."

"And everything good with you and Jessica?" he adds as good measure.

He's one to ask. He knows that things aren't always good with us. When it goes sour, it goes real fucking sour.

I nod and stand up then walk over to the table to get the jump rope out of the duffle bag I use as my gym bag.

"No, man. Wi good," I tell him. He doesn't need to know that we aren't necessarily on good terms.

After last night, I bet she does, but I know we aren't. At least in my head.

She fucked up. And I'm not yet over it.

Speaking of last night.

Damn.

I can't remember half of it. I just know some serious shit went down.

You remember her though.

I shake my head in an effort to erase the thought.

Now I know what some men mean when they say they're pussy-whipped.

And yuh nuh get none yet? Do better, dawg!

I chuckle at the thought.

Like yuh frighten fi browning. Yuh nuh used to gyal?

Rolling my eyes inwardly, I start to untie the twisted rope.

"Yes, boo. I'll buy it when I'm coming over," Nyama says walking back to us. He'd moved once the phone rang. "OK, babe. Love you too. Bye."

"Hear the man!" Petrad teases him when he hangs up. "'Bout love. Nuh you  just a make plan fi sample such nail-tec crotches?"

Nyama laughs and punches him on the shoulder.

In true Jamaican fashion, his nickname suits him.

Never see a Rasta man love nyam pork so yet! And if a did the kind that comes from pigs, it would a bad and nuh so bad...