I'm a new author and if you're looking for a quickie, this might make you mad. Please vote and comment.
*
"Damn, I forgot to email those Excel files to myself," Mozeia softly murmured. Easing off the heels that slightly yet impassionedly tortured her, she walked from the foyer to her bedroom. A place tranquility touched. Wide jaded fronds arched at the entrance silently beckoning for their queen to enter. Shades of oranges: coral, watermelon, and papaya shed their radiance causing a warm glow to infuse the room. A luxurious Oriental rug hugged the wooden floors. Slick with the lateen shine of Mop Glow, they reflected the paintings photographs of natural, fashion, and African art prints. Upon all this elegance, centered for maximum presentation was the heavily pillow padded ash four poster.
As she delicately loosed all external and foreign influences, a movement of color, the laser sharpness of her house phone, signaled another problem.
"Damn, if these mothafuckas keep calling my goddamn phone, their cells are going to be firmly and forever fucked!" With that outburst echoing, Mozeia picked the phone from its hook. After dialing, the necessary digits and distending her diaphragm for maximum air intake, a voice was heard.
"Shit, why isn't she picking up the phone," softly spoken utterance caught while the preliminary beeping was in motion. "Mo, this is Nia."
"Like I don't know who it is," with a roll of her eyes and a regal dismissive shake of the head, she moved the phone to her right ear and took off her other golden hoop earring.
"Please, I'm begging. Now don't roll your eyes. I haven't even asked. Look, Raheim," a name rushed from lips.
"Is she still talking 'bout this brotha? I can't believe this shit."
A slight hesitant pause was next, and then through an escaping exhale the request was rendered. "Raheim wants to know if you could possibly put in another good word for him at your firm. Mo, you know that I wouldn't ask if not needed, please give him a chance for me, your girl." Even with this plea, a hint of pride penetrated the voice.
"Damn, here I go again," Mo hurriedly pressed three to erase the message and then tossed her clothes in the hamper.
***~______~***
At five feet eight and delightfully three-quarters of an inch tall, Mo was the Commodores' muse for the literal brick shitting house. With eyes the color of smoking grey, and skin the flavor of caramel, she busted balls and bitches. At average eye level, 38 DDD's jauntily greeted onlookers with plentiful pahdow. And with the lethal weapon of choice engaged, nuclear holocaust grainy hip-huggers emphasized the curves of a perfect Georgia peach. Perhaps some speculated that her 18 inch waist added leverage. But when fully measured Mo was toting a 42, ass that is. Yeah, that was what made grown men cry.
Despite the speculation that went on in the barrooms and boardrooms, Mo was blessed in all ways. When considering her occupation's vertical movements, she always considered going but not hoeing to the top. Outside and internally Mo was complete, for her brains definitely defined the curve in all this acer's classes and professional meetings.
Closing her front door, Mozeia tapped her pot of tulips to the side and glimpsed one of her spare keys. Recovering and smartly turning, Mo marched to her car. Night air complemented her Equinox like a brother to a sister. Protective and proudly prancing. Midnight blue glistened with a sparkle. Eeek, Eeek and the way was cleared. With a glance back at her peace and then at the street, maroon lights softly illuminated the back tires crunching on gravel.
"I've been looking for you," Mo heartily sang to Kirk's new remodeled groove. Streetlamps garnered her attention as she wondered. Turning the music down, she began to talk junk. "Why, in the hell won't Nia listen to me? Can't she see how that nigga is playing her? Does she know that she can do better, a whole lotta damn better? Betta yet let me ask myself, what the hell am I doing? Speeding and browbeating every would be rager to get to my girl's damn condo?" Guessing that the loosening and unfurling of her tongue caused her to hurl herself into the exit I-20 E lane, she said, "Let me calm my unhappy ass down".
"Now look at this mothafucka," a deepened growl barreled through her mouth. "Let me merge" Pressing her foot determinedly down and cutting her eyes to the left and behind, Mo began to slice her way into the nightly mad mass exodus of ATL.
Switching to gospel when she caught sight of Nia's condo, a quick scan revealed Raheim's raggedly ass berry barely there painted Rodeo. Jumping out of the truck with hardly any effort, Mo put one Mary Jane in front of the other. Silently chanting to herself, "This little light of mine," she knocked on the front door. Looking around she noticed that the grass wasn't cut, and the doorbell was stuck. "Damn, little fucka broke my nail."
"Well lookie here. Ms. Siddity Mo has come to play with us." Raheim inched his eyes over the raven smooth edges of Mo's heavily oil sheened hair clasped by a light blue wraparound. Her face was molded by a sweetened tongue for her caramel was concealing high cheek bones that merged into squinty eyes and finally the scent was caught up in a narrow nose and smothered by fleshy lips. Those lips were the kind that needed no endorsement or enhancement but simply put spoke for themselves. "Look at the ass on that mothafucka. She needs to let me hit it. Got her ass up on her back, bossy bitch," Raheim thought to himself.
"Mmmm is that cinnamon," Mo thought. Rocking slightly back on her heels, she gazed up and up to the hostile honey highlights of his eyes. "He makes me feel like a midget. He has to be at minimum 6'6"," was added to her thoughts. Cornrows crested his head, undoubtablly done by Nia's hand made him seem to be a warrior, a gift from the ancient ones perhaps. With magnetic deeply concentrated cocoa skin, he silently berated her for her diluted roots. Slightly tipping her tongue over her bottom lip, she gazed. Shoulders guarded unpinchable pectorals and an almighty abdomen that sank into sweats. Sweat sparkling sent a salty scent into her nostrils, but Mo completed her perusal to notice that he was barefooted and a little ashy.
"Gurl, you didn't have to rush over here, but you need to come in here for a minute," Nia's voice trailed pulling Mo forward.
"Excuse me," the tension still taught.
"Of course, come on in," but Raheim didn't move an inch and Mo had to squeeze by.
"I know he didn't just push up on me. I can't believe the blinders Nia wears," thought Mo. Strutting her stuff proudly, Mo also couldn't believe her senses. Smoke curled and caught into the ceiling. A taped BET Uncut special was on and popping, and clothes cluttered the couches. In the kitchen, Nia was bent over the stove clacking and cutting bell peppers, onions, garlic. Collard greens, squash, and mashed potatoes commanded the top stove while cornbread and a meaty casserole baked. The aromas brought back memories of Aunt Mamie's cooking and loving times.
"Mo, come in here and let me put some meat on them bones," yelled Nia. Barely topping five feet and claiming 5'3", Nia was past chunky but her soulful mothering and never-ending chuckles endeared her to most.
"Now, I've told you these hips have got to go. I even joined Curves. And what are you doing standing on your feet cooking a Sunday dinner on a Tuesday night after working at your shop all day? Don't front, because I know your feet are tired because you're wearing poor Tweety out," Mo complained.
"Raheim likes my cooking, and I promised him he wouldn't miss me because I've been putting more hours in at the shop."
"What? You mean to tell me he has the nerve to complain? He's the cause for your aching feet and the long hours. How long have you been supporting him? And what's this about me putting in a good word? How many times have I tried to hook him up and how many times has he blown it?"
"Why are you always putting him down? You know how he grew up. What he and all black men had and have to go through; the struggle isn't over for a long shot for them or us."
"The difference is the others are trying to overcome. He just wants to hang on your dress tail. And besides we fought to get a piece of the pie. Why can't he?"
"You know what? I ain't hearing that shit. Either help or not." After tasting the greens she added some more Tony's and stirred.
"Ok. Damn. Fine." And with those words, she slapped Nia on the rump and began the retreat.
Behind the kitchen wall, Raheim was listening to every word and shaking his head. His body was tense with rage at the thought of Mo belittling his ass yet again. "Can't a brotha get a break? Damn, bitches be like fucking hurdles you have to soar just to clear them. Wrong move or a slipup causes your ass to be disqualified. Quietly, he went into the bedroom letting Mo exit without escort.
