Lonely Smiles

Frustrated

I'm so sick of his shit.

She paces back and forth between a sofa and coffee table in a nice, clean, well-lit apartment. The glass of the table reflects her hair bouncing as she strides from one end of the couch to the other. Her gold hoop earrings twisting and dancing from her ears. She has on a belly shirt with long sleeves and a jean skirt with black heels. Her skin shimmering from being freshly lotioned.

I need to leave this man. I am so sick of this apartment. I NEED AIR. Her thoughts rolled around in her mind.

She steps onto the balcony and takes in the site of the city. People busy interacting, living their best life. Smiley is out there doing some gang shit. Whatever the hell that is. If only she had something to do, a job, friends, anything. Then she thinks about having to communicate with people and cringes. She is sick of being at home but doesn't want to be around anyone. All she does is paint. Yes her artwork is great and she sells them online but she is bored.

He's probably down there, beating someone up and smiling that demented ass smile, or fucking some whore who is into gangs, or flashy suits. She frowns, even though she knows he hasn't done anything to seem unfaithful to her. In fact, ever since middle school he has really only shown interest in her. She keeps imagining what he's doing as she shifts her weight back and forth on her heels. Dumb ass. Why does he like this dumb gang shit so much?!

She turns around shuffles back inside frustrated. The gang will always come first.

I should leave him. Be with a 6'6" guy with tattoos and an anger problem. Only Nahoya would absolutely love to beat the hell out of someone like that. It's useless. Ever since the day I gave into that stupid grin.

I'm getting out of here.

She grabs her jacket but as she heads for the door the knob begins to turn.

Oh great, he's home.

Nahoya walks in and the room fills with his scent. His very presence commands her attention. When he is with the gang, he's just Smiley, with her, he is everything. He has on a sleek black suit and brimming pristine smile. She frowns and shakes her head, her hair swaying against her movements fighting her usual routine to pounce into his toned arms.

"Hey babe," he beams like the Cheshire cat. He changed so much from when they first started dating. He had a small frame and didn't look like much but had incredible strength for being so young. That was 20 years ago. The whole gang traded in their jump suits for designer suits. He looked completely different, except for that smile. His hair the same peach color, still an afro, he just kept shorter allowing his face to now take the spotlight.

"Don't. I am so done with you," she clicked.

"Aw, come on," he runs a hand up to his hair, turns his head and giving her a devilish look from the side of his face, a five-o-clock shadow across his sharp features. So much testosterone that even though he shaves every morning, he comes home with a light beard every night the same peach color as the hair on his head. It only makes the smile more enticing.

That's where he gets her every time, those devilish grins, with unknown intent behind them. "Don't 'come on' to me. I'm sick of being here alone all day. I need someone who is going to be around," she shakes her head again.

"Baby, you miss me? Are you lonely? I'm here now," he reaches for her hands sounding playful.

She pulls back, "Don't fucking touch me. I'm so sick of you." She holds a hand up to his face.

"Oh yeah," he throws his jacket across the couch as he backs away and slides his hands into his pants pockets. His broad shoulders now revealed from the suit, his shirt was tight enough you can see his trimmed physique. "Just how sick of me are you?" She knows he loves a challenge, so this was just a game for him.