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Blogging My Murder; chapter eight, part one

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Chapter Eight; Part One

I sit in the car and check the comments on my latest post about dating. There are a few comments about dating not being worth it, but there are many more that urge me to take a chance. MNborn writes, “After my horrible marriage fell apart, I told everyone who would listen that I was done with men. My ex-husband had been abusive and cheated on me. He was constantly lying about his affairs, and I was a shattered woman by the time the divorce was finalized. Fast-forward three years, and I was in a Barnes & Noble, browsing through the Sci-Fi section. A tall, weedy ginger started talking to me and convinced me to have coffee with him. Coffee progressed to dinner which progressed to dessert in his apartment. Within a week, we had moved in together, and we’ve been together ever since. That was eight years ago.” NoFussNoMuss says, “Dating is bullshit, but spending weekends with my honey is everything. So I put up with the bullshit to get to this place. And, I overlook her flaws by in part by reminding myself that I never, ever want to endure the bullshit of dating again.” SeedSawed gives his opinion as well. “After a bad relationship, my brother took me out to the clubs every weekend over my objections. If it were up to me, I would have stayed home and brooded. So, while I cussed him out at the time, I’m grateful to him now, especially since I met my wife during one of those nights out.”

I shut down the browser and drive to Pinky X’s parents’ house in Plymouth and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers, but I hear rustling inside. I wait several seconds before ringing the doorbell again. I can definitely hear someone. I knock sharply on the door, refusing to go away. I know from experience that Minnesota Nice will kick in sooner or later, and whoever’s inside will open the door before long.

“What?!” The door is yanked open, and Pinky X is before me in the flesh. She’s a solid six feet tall with magenta dreads and ice-blue eyes. She’s slender, but shapely, and she’s wearing torn jeans and a multicolored tank top. A dozen bangles on each arm, and half a dozen earrings in each ear. She’s glaring down at me, but there’s fear in her eyes. I’m puzzled because I’ve never met her before, so why is she afraid of me?

“Pinky X? My name is Megan Liang.” I hold out my hand, but Pinky X just stares at it. I let my hand drop and try not to take it personally. “I’m looking for Simon. Do you know where he is?”

“No. He’s nothing to me. Leave me alone!” Pinky X tries to shut the door, but unfortunately for her, I have my foot in the way. Unfortunately for me, my toes get caught in the crunch, which fucking hurts. Her words suddenly click in my brain, and I understand why she’s so afraid.

“I’m not after him for money. I don’t care about that.” I smile reassuringly at Pinky X, and her shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

“Come in.” Pinky X opens the door and gestures for me to come in. I take off my shoes and leave them in the hallway, glancing around me as I follow Pinky X into the house. The walls are austere, painted a hospital white, but decorated with impressionist paintings. “Would you like something to drink?” Pinky X asks, her voice polite.

“Diet Coke if you got it?” I ask, taking in as much of the environment as I can without being too obvious about it. The furniture looks fancy, like mahogany or something, and I’m afraid to touch anything. There’s an air of sterility in the air, and there’s no living creature other than us in the house.

“Of course!” Pinky X opens the fridge, grabs two Diet Cokes and pops the top of one of them. She pours it into a crystal glass, adds three ice cubes, and hands it to me. She does the same for herself, adds rum to it, then leads me into the living room. The couch is red suede, and I’m afraid I’m going to spill on it. I sit on the couch and carefully set my glass on a coaster on the coffee table. Pinky X sits in a leather recliner across from me and puts her feet up on an ornate ottoman. “Why are you looking for Simon?” The flash of fear in her eyes again.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter six, part two

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“I’m going out for a while, but I should be home before too late.” I kiss Onyx and Jet on their heads before leaving, ignoring their cries as I do. I drive to South Minneapolis where my sister lives and sit in the car after parking. I steel myself for the encounter, taking several smooth, slow breaths. I always have trouble interacting with normies, and my brother-in-law is definitely a normie. He does something in marketing, and he’ll drone on and on about it for hours if you let him. Coral is a pleasant woman who greatly resembles her mother, and she has the strong will as well. She has marched in Black Lives Matter protests for the past year and a half, much to her father’s dismay. She and her husband, Jamal Harrington, are prominent figures in the local chapter. Jamal is a teacher in an alternative high school, and despite being built like a linebacker, he never played sports as a kid. He’s a crack hand at chess, though. We’ve played it a few times, and he’s whupped my ass every time.

“I can do this.” I turn off the car, lock the door, and knock on the door to Jasmine’s house.

“Megan, come on in.” Jasmine grabs me in a hug, nearly taking my breath away.

“Auntie Meg! Come play.” Michelle and Ing-wen fly at me, nearly knocking me over in their enthusiasm to hug me. They’re wearing matching dresses, red for Michelle and orange for Ing-wen. They both have matching bows in their curls, and they look too cute for words.

“Hi, girls. How’re my babies doing?” I hug them with difficulty as they squirm in my embrace.

“Come play with us! We brought our Legos!” They pull at my hand, but Jasmine shoos them away.

“Girls, let her say hi to everyone else.” Jasmine leads me into the living room where her husband, Bob, is sitting on the recliner, and Coral and Jamal are on the couch. Bob’s black hair is slicked back, and he has a grimace on his face as Jamal and Coral chat with each other.

“Aunt Meg!” Coral springs up and hugs me. “It’s been too long!” She squeeze my hand. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Coral. You’re looking great!” I look her up and down with a critical eye. She’s lost some weight while still retaining her voluptuous figure. Her curly hair is pinned up in a sloppy bun which suits her Madonna figure, and she’s wearing a brilliant red pantsuit which guarantees she’ll draw every eye in the room. “Your girls are lovely, too.” I look around for Smoochie, Jasmine’s calico cat, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She’s thirteen, has a touch of arthritis, and the only people she like are her immediate family, so I rarely see her.

“They are the best of me and Jamal, that’s for sure!” Coral leads me to the couch, and Jamal rises to greet me.

“Ms. Liang. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Jamal extends his hand and engulfs mine in his.

“Megan. Please. It’s good to see you, too.” I eye Jamal covertly, not letting on how attractive I find him. He’s six-feet four inches of solid muscle, his dark brown skin looking deliciously edible. His dreads fall halfway down his back, and his tailored suit is just itching to be ripped off. “How’re you doing, Jamal?”

“Just fine, Megan.” Jamal says with an easy smile. “My kids this year are riled up about Phil Castilo’s shooting, so I’ve had my hands full with them.”

“That was such bull—crap,” I say, changing the word at the last moment. I’m keenly aware of my two grandnieces hanging on our every word, and I don’t want to be the one to corrupt them. Granted, they are playing with their ‘Legos’ (Duplos) on the floor and don’t appear to be paying attention, but I know better. The last time I saw them, I said something was shit, and the girls suddenly looked up from their plushies and said shit loudly and in unison.

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