“Yo, Shelly, word up. You need to get the fuck up outta here wit’ that dumb shit.”

I finally turn my attention to ’er. Stare the bitch down. Tilt my head. Tone catches how I’m grillin’ this bitch. I peep she has a lil’ fan club wit’ ’er—three hood-booga bitches.

“What, you deaf, ho? I asked you a question.”

I don’t respond. I count to ten. Play this shit out in my head. Take a deep breath, then slowly exhale. I’m tryna keep it cute, but I already see I’ma have’ta turn it up a notch.

Now she’s eyein’ me, and I’m eyein’ her right the fuck back, darin’ the bitch to bring it. She shifts her stare back to Tone. “Yo, go ’head with the dumb shit, Shelly. Ain’t nobody tryna hear this crazy shit today, yo. For real.”

She slams her hand up on her hip. “Go ’head nothing, mother-fucker.” The bitch is gettin’ amped now, bringin’ a buncha unnecessary attention to our table. I decide this is my cue to exit. A bitch ain’t tryna be caught up in nobody’s domestic shit.

“Look,” I say, gettin’ up, slippin’ my bag on my arm. “Obviously ya’ll have some unfinished business to deal wit’ so I’ma let ya’ll handle this wit’out me.” I toss a Ben Franklin on the table. “Thanks for the meal, but I ain’t sign up for the extras,” I add, gettin’ ready to step off.

She smirks. “Oh, so the ho does speak. Mmmph.”

He quickly stands, snatchin’ the money from the table. “Nah, fuck that. It’s on me,” he says, handin’ the money back. “You don’t have to leave. Just hol’ up. Give me one sec…please.” I can tell the muhfucka’s embarrassed that this bitch done stepped to him all sideways. I twist my lips, shakin’ my head.

“Nah, I’m cool. Holla back when you handle ya situation.” Now instead of this bitch keepin’ the heat on him, she starts tryin’ it on my time; callin’ me dumb shit like: Beezy, Bopper, Bootie Crack Corn, and some other shit that was definitely some Bay area lingo. A definite no-no. Now I’m ready to light her ass up. I guess the dusty bitch thought she was chasin’ me up outta here. I stop in my tracks.