“Well, he’s throwin’ another one in Manhattan at Eden….” Mmmph. She’s talkin’ ’bout that spot over on Eight Ave between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It used to be the China Club back in the day. Anyway, it has a lil’ rooftop area for peeps to sit ’n chill and get they drink on wit’out all that loud music beatin’ ’em in the head when they tired of bein’ hemmed up inside. And the music’s real cute. But from what I remember, the two times I went there, the drinks weren’t hittin’ on shit and they had more bitches than niggas up in there. And most of ’em wasn’t even dimes. And the few that did look like sumthin’, they weren’t no high-end bitches. And the truth is, I ain’t have no business up in there wit’ ’em.

“If I decide to come through, you need to make sure ya ass gotta back-up plan for us in case that shit is busted.”

“Oh, trust. Word has it’s gonna be fiiiyah. You know that nigga only rolls wit’ them balla niggas.”

I roll my eyes, wipin’ my snatch, then flushin’ the toilet. This thirsty bitch stays tryna find her next trick. “Umm, what’s good wit’ Divine?” I ask sarcastically, checkin’ to see if the nigga’s still dickin’ her. I’m at the sink washin’ my hands, admirin’ my reflection in the mirror. Hmmph, even wit’ ya hair tossed all over ya head, and sleep in ya eyes, you still a hot, buttery bitch!

She sucks her teeth. “He’s just dandy. Thank you very much.”

I step back into my bedroom, sittin’ on the side of the bed while I split open a Dutch and pack it wit’ my mornin’ get right. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always liked that nigga. Is he still rabbit-fuckin’ you, or has his stroke game improved?”

Now, typically askin’ a bitch ’bout her man’s dick game is a no-no, but since she’s always put it out there in the past that his dick game was mad whack; that he be fuckin’ her mad fast and whatnot, then nuttin’ off in minutes—then it’s a fair question.