Bloom

13 | body language

Rashad "June" Lockhart jr
Friday, October 28 | 7:53 p.m.
Smooth Central - Poetry and Hookah Lounge

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The atmosphere of Smooth Central is cool overall with good drinks, nice looking women, and tunes that flow as well as the name of the building suggests, but for whatever reason, I'm just not feeling it tonight.

Niko has taken the stage, performing an original song and it's not half bad, judging by the amount of women openly swooning over it. I can't lie, it's a welcomed change from the previous acts that were almost too emotional for me to bare. I'm not used to seeing strangers pour their hearts out and expose their deepest darkest secrets for an entire audience.

Dex is having good time though and that's all that I really care about. A few weeks ago, I told this nigga that I'd come so I'm making an effort to actually be good company.

At least until Ashanti show up.

The woman sitting across from me is staring again, her painted lips wrapped around a hookah pen. Tattoos litter her crossed thighs and it doesn't go unnoticed how her entire face perks up when we lock eyes. I've seen her around before, but I don't really know her. She's more of an acquaintance to Dex, but judging by her unrelenting eye contact, there's come sort of interest in me.

Aight then, I'll speak first.

"Wassup? I didn't get your name."

"I'm Shanice." She smiles, clearly pleased that her not so subtle, yet indirect flirting worked.

"Shanice, huh? I'm June." I extend my hand towards her and the smile on her face widens as our palms connect.

"Oh, I know who you are. Dex's big little cousin."

I chuckle. This isn't the first time that I've been called that and probably not the last because it's true. Although older than I am and around the same height, we still had a noticeable size difference with him being significantly thinner.

Niko exits the stage and is quickly replaced by a woman with many facial piercings. She immediately breaks out into a rendition of a popular Summer Walker song and Dex nods his head like it's a trap beat, hyping himself up for when he inevitably takes the mic.

My boy loves poetry, music, and art. I mean, I do too but not as much as Dex. He's been so entranced with the many talents that have graced the stage tonight that he's barely been holding any conversation, much to the distain of more than a few women. I swirl the liquid in my glass, feeling the chunky ice clank around and laugh to myself as he responds dryly to yet another interested young lady.

She's slim, light skin, with super long nails and dramatic eye-lashes — usually the type that he'd go for, but right now, he's shrugging her off too. Whether or not it's solely because of his interest in the music is debatable.

He ain't gone admit it yet, but that nigga in love.

The shock is visible on many faces when it's finally Dex's turn to grab the microphone. To most people, he's the quiet dude that's always high so they've probably never heard his voice before. Shit, they've probably never even heard mine either. Mack is the talkative one.

Disbelief quickly turns into enjoyment as he recites original poetry, mixing in a bit of freestyle to the melodic beat that has everyone clapping rhythmically. I nod my head, laying my arm on the back of his now empty seat.