We’d spent all summer taking trips to Wingstop and the book store, missions with no objectives but we liked to believe that we lived life on the “good side,” whatever the good side was actually like.
The first time we’d met, I saw him on stage at an open mic night. That fool just picked it up and rapped into it, sent his magical flow through the speakers and shot me right through the heart—his lyrics had me aimed right down his sights. His flow was so sick, I vibed to it, all eighteen bars. He rapped about his life coming back up and within his eyes, I could almost see the scars. But by the end of his flow, his eyes lit up like he’d just won a war and suddenly being at that coffee shop felt so surreal. As he walked off stage, he glanced into the audience. We made eye contact and suddenly the strangers seated around me drowned out into silence.
We ran into each other in the parking lot. I told him I liked his performance and he thanked me like a perfect gentleman. I guess after his performance, he just planned on bouncing and I questioned why he didn’t stay to hear the rest. “I just need someone to listen.”
I nodded, pulled out a stray sticky note from my purse and scrawled my number on it. “I could be that someone.”
"You try’na pick me up?" He laughed, folding it and tucking it away into his tweed jacket, breast pocket.
"No," I sighed. "I just liked your flow, and I know what it feels like to need someone to listen to you every once in a while."
That night, he texted me, spit me a flow electronically… introduced himself, basics, name and age and mentioned that he had a bad case of insomnia and was addicted to coffee. It was strange, really, but well appreciated. I spent a good thirty minutes of that evening thinking up a few good lines to send back at him, hoping that it had enough bite, or at least enough to keep him thinking through his night-owl habit, enough to suffice through the night.
Before I’d drifted off into sleep, 2AM, another text: “Fairest lady of them all, can I take you on a date, perhaps show you right? If yes, meet me at the joint with the open mic tomorrow night.”
We sat at a booth near the door; the place was packed. He slipped me a half-folded piece of paper and laughed. I opened it, greeted by a sixteen-bar rap about how I sparked his interest when he glanced at the crowd, a classy lady, well kept and how I was almost like an Asian Snow White, beautiful and red-lipped. It suddenly occurred to me that I came to the performance last night with the reddest lipstick I owned.
"The color suits you," he said aloud.
"Impressive," I commented, tucking the sheet of paper in a Moleskin.
"Sorry," he smirked, "I don’t usually take my dates to coffee joints and then try to grace them with a flow… you know?"
"Well, I appreciate you taking the time to spit a few rhymes to me via this piece of paper, guess I’ll save it for later. I must say, well said, the way you said it, and I see you had it printed, so I gotta give you some credit. Right?"
"I see you’ve got some rhymes of your own, Miss."
So polite. I wasn’t sure what I had fallen for first, his vibe or his gentleman approach?
We spent the rest of the summer texting each other raps about this and that, I sent him some spoken word when the time called for it. Occasionally we spoke on the phone. He was a perfect gentleman and I responded appropriately; we kept it quite classy… but nothing compared to the poetic conversations we shared in person.
Nothing compared to the conversations we had in his home-made studio posted in his bedroom, right in front of the mic and over a cup of coffee.
One night, I headed over to his place and we collaborated; each line we dropped from came straight from our souls, finely cultivated. After a few run throughs and deciding on a beat, we made a spoken word piece on video and titled it “VibeWithMe.”
That same night, he at the end of the piece, he asked me to be his lady and I agreed. Creative couples call for poetic masterpieces, but our finest masterpiece yet would be our relationship.
"Vibe with me."
tagged as fiction. love.
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