Wind River is a 2017 American neo-western murder mystery thriller film written and directed by Taylor Sheridan. The film stars Jeremy Renner and Elizabeth Olsen as a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service tracker and an FBI agent, respectively, who try to solve a murder on the Wind River Indian Reservation in Wyoming. Gil Birmingham and Graham Greene also star (Wikipedia).
Plot:Cory Lambert is a wildlife officer who finds the body of an 18-year-old woman on an American Indian reservation in snowy Wyoming. When the autopsy reveals that she was raped, FBI agent Jane Banner arrives to investigate. Teaming up with Lambert as a guide, the duo soon find that their lives are in danger while trying to solve the mystery of the teen’s death.
Trailer: Wind River
It has been a while since I have seen a movie that didn’t involve or revolve around war, super heroes fighting a war, a talking raccoon, or a space ship. This is just good old fashioned story telling about a murder that is going to be tough to solve. The story pits a jaded fish and wildlife expert with a green FBI agent with no field experience against the backdrop of the Wyoming landscape, which becomes an essential character in story.
The purist in me loves the elements of literary storytelling as it pits man vs nature as the story opens with a young Indian girl running for her life. The temperature is below zero, she is barefoot, and the weather is so cold her lungs explodes. A true warrior like her people, she ran six miles in that weather to escape a group of men who used her simply because they were bored.
The plot thickens as we come face to face with man vs society with the same white men who feel entitled to take what they wants simply because the local officials have no jurisdiction on the federal drilling site where they work. One weekends, the band of brothers ride into town and pick and young Indian woman for their amusement. Cody Lambert’s daughter has been the victim of such a crime, having died several years before under similar circumstances.
Cody is not your typical hero in this story since he is face to face with his worst enemy – himself. In order to bring peace to his own heart and in his own head, he has to help solve this murder. It is not redemptive in the sense that he finds his daughter’s killer, but he is able to bring closure to his friend, who is the father of the young woman from the opening scene. A young woman, who was friends with his daughter. In the process, he also saves the life of the FBI Agent, and possibly his soul.
Wind River is a great date night movie with enough action to keep you entertained, as well as enough slow spots to jump up and grab a beer without missing too much. I give this movie four strokes of my pen on a scale of five.
The Office Wife, March 11, 2017, Issue 3, Olivia Gaines
Manigault Hurley, R & D
A quiet Tuesday morning ensued as Vicki made coffee in the breakroom for whichever members of the board who were in the office that day. Although the suggestion box requested, almost daily, the purchase of one of those machines with the little pods, it was not economical to purchase so many expensive packages, to make one cup of coffee at a time. Besides, the pods left a medicinal taste on her tongue. It wasn’t as if she were a coffee purist, but there was no reason to ruin a good cup of Joe, with a plastic cup of ground nonsense.
Speaking of nonsense, Vicki checked her inbox to find five invitations for lunch from Konnie with a K who had an unnatural fascination with personal organizers and Washi tape. Twice in the last two days, Vicki found stickers with Washi tape in her office mail box. Konnie was like a naughty little cat who liked to leave dead treats on your pillow. There was something odd about the young temp in a not so good way. The Washi tape felt like little dead bodies in coils of bright colors left for her to see every other day. To make matters worse, somehow, Konnie found out today was her birthday.
A roll of Washi tape with little balloons and cakes sat on her desk with a card, when opened spit out a puff of multi-colored confetti. It was all over her desk. By the time lunch rolled around, Vicki’s futile attempts to rid herself of the meddlesome colorful dots only resulted in confetti in her hair and stuck to her neck and face. Taneeka, her office best friend of only a month, sent her a text message with an image of her face, frozen in laughter.
Vicki’s phone binged. It was another text with an image from Taneeka.
This image was of her nose, taped upwards, Miss Piggy style with a bright strip of Washi tape. It was comical. However, it wasn’t as comical as the image of Manigault Hurley, standing in front of her desk dressed like a character from Monty Python.
“Allow me, Ms. Lawrence, to take you to lunch on this special day of your birth,” he said with his lips pressed together as if her were holding in a wad a slobber and a chunk of peanut butter in his cheeks like a deranged chipmunk.
“Thank you Mr. Hurley, but I can’t today,” she tried backing away from the offer.
“Nonsense,” he said, leaning back rubbing his little flat stomach. “It is your birthday. If you don’t have plans, and based on that lunch bag, I can only assume you don’t, then allow me to treat you to a lovely lunch at my club.”
He was right. Her lunch bag held left over take out from the Chinese restaurant around the corner from her house, which always had too many onions, which gave her horrific gas. She didn’t want to eat what was in her bag any more than she wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon finding discrete places to poot.
“Come, it will be grand. My driver will take us over to the club, you can order whatever you want, and I will have a lovely cake ordered just for your special day,” Manigault told her.
He seemed like a nice man who reminded her of Grandpa Lawrence. She hoped he didn’t have the same sense of humor though. Her Grandpa Lawrence, for fun, enjoyed taking his teeth out in church to make lewd gestures with his tongue to the ladies in the choir, but he never followed up on any of his suggestive behaviors. She prayed Manigault was the same way.
“Sure, it would be nice to join you for lunch on my birthday. I am certain you are going to make this a day to remember,” she responded.
“No, I am going to treat you to a good meal,” he told her with an expressionless face.
Vicki was just crossing into the three-month mark at American Conglomerate. Thus far, based on what she’d seen, clicks and grouplings were formed, but Manigault stood out from the crowd. He was a man of what appeared to be impeccable breeding, ridiculously good taste paired with a reputation without flaw. From what she could gather, his private life, was indeed very private. His desk held no personal photos, momentous, only documentation of his life at American Conglomerate.
“Perfect, I will meet you downstairs at my car at 11:45, please don’t be late,” he cautioned.
Vicki looked down at her watch. It was 11:15. She had thirty minutes to prepare herself for what she knew was going to be a drawn-out conversation on his bug collection from New Guinea or worse, a long-winded montage on the down fall of the black man. This was usually followed by an invitation to make her life easier by offering her a key to his love pad downtown, or worse, a tiny ranch house in the Valley right below Rancho Cucamonga. Suddenly her appetite waned the same moment her desk phone rang. It was Taneeka.
“Hey!” She said to Vicki.
“Hey back,” she said slowly.
“Happy Birthday,” Taneeka said quickly. “Drinks on me after work if you can make it.”
“If it is close by at a local watering hole and on my way home, I could sip on something to cut the edges off my glitter infused morning,” she replied.
“Just don’t sip or suck on anything during lunch. I heard old men give you bugs,” Taneeka joked.
“I think he is just being nice, considering he knows no one else on this floor or team is going to do anything for my special day,” Vicki mumbled.
“You never know,” Taneeka said. “No seriously, you never know, he could be taking you out to set you up for the old rope a dope.”
“As in…a surprise on my desk when I get back?”
“No, he is going to show you that an old stove still has a hot pipe,” she told Vicki.
“Just when I started to like you a little,” Vicki chided.
“Well, hurry up. Manigault hates it when people are late plus, I am dying to find out what this lunch thing is about,” she said.
“Okay…whatever, have fun at my painful expense,” she said before saying goodbye and ending the call.
At least I get a decent meal out of it. Hurrying to the ladies to room to take care of her necessities, she washed her face, fluffed her hair and applied a little lipstick before heading to the first floor. Manigault had said driver. She failed to ask what his driver would be driving. Once she stepped out of the door, she quickly saw.
The classic Bentley was manned by a very large Asian gentleman who remined her of the James Bond villain with the bowler hat that could decapitate a man. I wish I could remember the villian’s name. Her fingers involuntarily went to her neck, caressing the soft skin. The door was opened for her as she tugged a little on the red dress she chose to wear this morning, even considering it was bordering on too little for her curvy body. The dress made her feel pretty even if on the inside, she felt like sludge. The three-inch heels added a bit of height to her frame, as she slid her bottom into the car seat first, swinging well-toned legs around to face the front. Manigault appeared to be pleased. It was more of a move to protect her modesty from the eyes of the driver. He didn’t need to see the hot red lacy undies.
“Thank you for joining me,” Manigault told her.
“It is I who should be thanking you,” she said sweetly.
He only nodded, pulled out his phone, and began to make notes in a pocket note book as they drove to the Lakeside Country Club in Burbank. The drive was short, his body was tense as the car came to a stop in front of what looked like the main entrance. His glasses came down from his face.
“Wait for me to come escort you,” he said.
The driver opened his door first. Manigault inhaled sharply, exhaling what sounded like frustration as he stood, leisurely walking around the car to open Vicki’s door. A well-manicured hand reached inside the car asking for her to join him. Luckily, she’d just gotten a mani and pedi herself as her hand slid into his, coming out of the car, to stand at his side. He wrapped her arm into his as they made their way into the main building.
Vicki learned something new about Manigault that day. She found out that he was Hollywood royalty. Everywhere he turned, people were bending over to almost kiss his ass. He held his head high, walking as if he didn’t see any of the little people as they passed making their way to a private dining area. This pushed Vicki to do the only thing she knew to do, play along. Whatever was happening here was in the now. She was being audition for a role she wasn’t certain she wanted to play.
Over lunch of rock crab claws, something drenched in champagne, and a dollop of mashed potatoes, she said nothing as they ate in silence. On occasion, she would look up at him in well placed intervals and smile. His face did not move the first time she did it. The second time she smiled at him, she added a wink.
It got a reaction out of him.
Brief, but small, Manigault’ s eyes smiled back at her.
Three young men, all waist staff, were gawking at them all throughout lunch. Someone snapped a photo which infuriated Manigault to no end, who raised his hand, and three managers materialized like ghostly apparitions awaiting his bidding.
“My lady friend and I value our privacy. Whoever it was who snapped the photo, I know you will assure me it will not be seen anywhere?” He asked the manager as he got to his feet. He held out his hand for Vicki to come to his side in a show of outrage by the staff’s actions.
“Of course, Mr. Hurley, we will take care of it,” the manager lied.
Vicki held his arm, lips pouting out like an upset child, looking at the manager. In a childlike voice, she asked him, “Manigault, they are not going to sell our pictures to the papa-pazzi are they?”
“Paparazzi dear,” he said to her.
“Oh yeah. Pappa-prazzi,” he said trying to mimic him.
Manigault looked at the manager, “See that they don’t.”
Vicki, to add fuel to the fire, pushed up on her right breast with her hand, as if to shift its attention toward the door as she took Manigault’ s arm squeezing it for support, she held her head high and walked out the door. She added a bit more swish to her hips, stomping her feet like a runway model until they reached the car.
Bottom in first, she swung her legs around as the driver closed her door. She waited patiently for Manigault to entered the other side of the car, turning to face her with a gigantic grin on his face. Vicki shuddered. In three months’ time, she’d never seen him so happy.
“Mr. Hurley, you do know that photo is going to be everywhere by 6 am. It will be all over social media and every one will be trying to figure out who I am,” she said to him. “It never dawned on me that you were the Manigault Hurley.”
“One and the same. I love my job at American Conglomerate and I am very good at it. I allow my family to handle the Hollywood stuff and I make public appearances with unknown pretty girls on my arm to keep the family’s name in the papers,” he said.
He’d told her enough, she understood.
“How many country clubs do you belong to?”
“Unfortunately, four. I visit one each week,” he said. “I love the months with five weeks because then I get a break.”
Vicki started to smile.
“Why are you grinning?”
“Because, if I get three nice wigs, I get a free lunch at an exclusive country club for the rest of the month,” she said with a wink.
“You’re good,” he told her with a larger smile.
“I thought you’d get a kick out of my Papa-pazzi comment,” she grinned.
“That was a nice touch,” he said patting her hand.
The drive back to the office passed in silence until they reached the front door of American Conglomerate. Manigault touched her hand.
“Ms. Vicki, you are a very astute young woman. I trust the details of our day will be kept in confidence?”
“Mr. Hurley, in my current position, everything I see, touch, feel or understand goes to my grave.”
“So, this is safe with you?”
“It will be as safe as the three wigs you hide under the driver’s seat for the next few Tuesdays,” she said, as she opened her door and stepped out into the Burbank sun.
Vicki did not see Hurley for the remainder of the day, but at 4:45, she’d trained her body to hold on, to make that last stop to the ladies’ room before she headed out at 5:10 each day to sit in traffic trying to get home. She returned to her desk to find a cupcake along with small black box on her desk with a diamond ring, nothing flashy, but classy in all the right ways. It had a simple note in bold script.
Keep it in your drawer for our once monthly first Tuesday outings. Enjoy your birthday. – Hurley
She’s passed the test. Whatever the test was, in Manigault’ s eyes, she’d passed it with flying colors. Once monthly outings. So once a month, on the first Tuesday, she was having lunch or making the rounds with him. Uncertain, yet sure as the corn on her left toe aching when it rained, she had just become something special and significant for Manigault.
Oddjob. That was the Bond character’s name with the bowler hat!
She’d been given an odd job herself. Once a month she would wear a pretty dress, don the ring and escort him on his rounds to ensure he got his name and the family brand on a social network site. Eyeing the ring a final time before securing it, she stood up and stuck it into the office safe for the next first Tuesday of next month. However, right now, she was ready to have a drink, celebrate her day of birth first with Taneeka, then her friends at home.
Vicki shrugged. Technically, Taneeka would be the third person she celebrated with since Konnie had been the first. Either way, it sure beat spending her birthday alone. In her heart, she knew much of his private life, he’d spent that way. If lunch or an outing once a month took some of the pressure off him to be a certain something for his family, she could do that for him.
Everybody needs some body.
She had just become a somebody for Manigault Hurley.
When overweight treadmill salesman Reginald Baskin finally meets a co-worker who doesn’t make fun of him, it’s just his own bad luck that tech guy Maurice turns out to be a two thousand-year-old vampire.
And when Maurice turns Reginald to save his life, it’s just Reginald’s further bad luck that he wakes to discover he’s become the slowest, weakest, most out-of-shape vampire ever created … doomed to “heal” to his corpulent self for all of eternity.
But as Reginald struggles with the downsides of being a fat vampire (too slow to catch people to feed on, mocked by those he tries to glamour, assaulted by his intended prey and left for undead), he discovers rare powers in himself that few vampires have … and just in time, because the Vampire Council wants him destroyed as an inferior representative of their race.
Fat Vampire is the story of an unlikely hero who, after having an imperfect eternity shoved into his grease-stained hands, must learn to turn the afterlife’s lemons into tasty lemon danishes.
Okay, so I am reading this book and I’m thinking, no way, a fat vampire? Then I think of Jessica in True Blood who was the virgin. Each time she fed, she healed which made her a virgin all over again. Which brings me to this book.
He is a hearty sized fella which means that every time he feeds and heals, he comes back to his heavy self.
It’s not bad reading.
The first book in there series is only $.99 which isn’t bad for a book of this size.
Yay! Star Trek is back in a big way, but it has left this life long Trekkie with many questions which I assume, will not be answered any time soon. However, i will get started with my questions and you can tell me what are your thoughts.
The Ship. Is this ship similar to the one built by Admiral Marcus in Into Darkness? Does Star Fleet have a whole fleet of warships like the USS Vengeance that explores deeper into space?
This crew, somebody is going to die. You already know it. They can’t let two women be in charge of anything without having to kill one of them.
Whaddya mean she is Spock’s step sister? Secondly, why you stepping on a space ship in the middle of nowhere? It wasn’t bother you. Get your feet off of it. The moment it moved your ass should have been blasting off. Now you have gon’ and killed something in a funny suit. This is going to be bad. really bad. Excuse me. But when did the Prime Directive kick in?
These are the Klingons we remember.
What daphuck is this?
6. It’s even scarier from the front.
Speaking of scary? Who hired this whining little Bitch Boy as the science officer? he is scared of everything.
What is this ish right here, a cry of the single men? A mourning howl? We know nothing of this practice in Klingon customs. Where is Worf?
So many questions, but I think after tonight, many others will understand they are grooming her into the role of Captain to make us like her and develop her skills as a leader. Right now, she is a not very likable.
Everywhere you turn either someone is taking a knee, starting a fight on Facebook or Tweeting like some maniac.
Let’s be honest. Nothing you can post, say or Tweet about is going to change anyone’s opinions because they are already mad. The ironic thing is, what they are mad about has nothing to do with the White House, taking a knee or disrespecting the national anthem.
Did you know that several religious faiths do not stand, salute the flag or recite the national anthem simply because it is a form of idolatry? Oh hush. This is nothing new. Shadrach, Meshack and Abednego didn’t debate how or why the decision to bow down and worship Nebuchadnezzars’ gold statue was made. They simply decided they wouldn’t do it. When the music started playing they weren’t found participating. (Daniel 3:1-12)
Last week, I strolled through my news-feed to find so many distraught to the point of high blood pressure over other’s Facebook posts. The unfriending commenced with words of agony in failing to understand the motives of people. I think I can clarify some of this for you.
We have lost a reason to believe in what is critical and important in our success as humans. Nearly everyone over the age of 15 in this world walks about with a mini computer in their pocket. How do they use it? To snap pictures of themselves at weird angles or to snap shot the yummy food they are eating and you can’t have any. This is done in order to garner likes. These likes are now hearts and thumbs up which reassures everyone that they are special. They are liked. Someone even loves the new photo they have posted. Thus begins the cycle. A vicious, nasty, teeth baring cycle for reassurance that they too are a part of a collective. A collective of like minded people who like what they like.
This week, it is time to hate the knee takers. Next week, the focus is one something new to hate, dislike, disparage or ridicule. The remarks are viewed as racist.
Believe it or not, some of them are not racist. You can’t be a racist and love Prince and Michael Jackson, or Michael Jordan or Jay-Z. Hell most of them like Beyonce and carry hot sauce in their purses and bags. How you gon’ be racist singing tonight you’re going to party like it’s 1999? You aren’t racist. You are angry that you aren’t getting any, your wife left you, and you pay child support for kids you don’t even like. Go ahead and admit it. More people are swiping left on your Tinder profile and the three who call you are unattractive and you already banged. Your options are as limited as your pockets. That’s what you are really upset about Marcus! Stop trying to pretend it’s something else. You are mad because no one wants to touch your pee-pee and you have to resort to self-service. You aren’t racist.
Being upset at the 44th President doesn’t make you a racist. Not liking the 45th President doesn’t mean you hate all white people.
You don’t like that particular President.
So what? I don’t like eggplant and you don’t see me making a fuss about it. Now if I send that emoji to hubby, he’d make a fuss about it.
As a matter of fact, I don’t like a few of my co-workers. It has nothing to do with their race, it’s because they are assholes. There! I said it. I don’t like *********** because he is an asshole.
He just happens to be white.
I didn’t need to qualify my dislike of him via his race, instead I simply focus on the mess he makes in the break room and blames everyone else. See that was easy, but we have allowed our anger to get out of control and to redefine us. We are heating ourselves up over small matters which have occurred for years, that we never knew about and now, you want to get indignant over.
Do you know how that looks to others around you?
Here is a perfect example.
Ridiculous isn’t it?
So is your behavior. Now stop it. Put on your big girl pants and big boy shoes and get out there and play nice. Don’t make me come over there!
Scott and Zelda are back and the healing can begin.
Scott returns from Europe ready to see Zelda, but he is not prepared for Grandma Lula.
In the past three weeks, Michael has wrestled with giving her the diaries and faces the dilemma of being truthful with his sister, not only about their parents, but their less than idyllic childhood.
Grandma Lula has a lot to add as Scott and Zelda face a very real threat to the new found happiness. To combat it all, Scott calls in backup which turns out to be just the perfect thing for Zelda and Michael to aid in the healing process.
After checking into their room, Yuri unpacked her toiletries. There was a window in her shower, and on the other side of the open window was another window. Her neighbors were showering and enjoying themselves by the sound of the woman’s moans.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones who thought a shower would be a good idea.”
Sven chuckled, turning Yuri to face him. “I’d kiss you, but we both have airplane smell on us. I’ll start the water. Grab the towels and meet me inside.”
“Yup, on it.”
Sven and Yuri’s shower lasted longer than their neighbors’, and they may have been louder. All of it magnificent—from Sven washing her hair to washing her. She returned the favor, but after he turned her body, pressed her front to the cold tile wall, and worshiped her body with his own.
Sated and clean, they collapsed on the bed in a tangle of limbs.
“I think we should stay in bed,” Yuri suggested. “Get room service, make love all day. I don’t have anywhere to be until tomorrow.”
“You’re trying to kill me. Or, at least, wound me.” Sven grunted, a grin on his lips as he rubbed circles on her stomach with his hand.
“Nah, but you’d look good with a limp.”
They both laughed.
“Get dressed. I’ll feed you. We’re up on the mountain in the next hour.”
“Bossy.” Yuri smirked, getting up from the bed.
“You like it.” Sven winked before standing and pulling on a pair of shorts and a cotton tee.” Yuri looked in her bag and pulled out a colorful jumper with tropical flowers. She tossed on brown wedge sandals and made sure to wash her face and brush her teeth. Sven watched her through the mirror, and she smiled back at him as she set about putting lotion on her arms and legs.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“Angel, put on some tennis shoes.”
Sven crossed his arms, his shirt shifting with his muscled arms.
“Trust me, the shoes work. I hope I can convince you to wear them and nothing else to bed, but honestly, your feet will be sore from all the walking. Trust me.”
Yuri toed off her shoes and pulled on a pair of tennis shoes.
“I look ridiculous.”
Sven tossed his head back and roared with laughter. He had a great laugh, but not when aimed at her. “Stop laughing, Sven.”
“I can’t help it. You’re adorable.” Sven crossed their small room to stand in front of Yuri. “The shoes are fine. You’re fine. Food first, and then Sugarloaf. Don’t be a sourpuss.”
“Don’t make me get ugly, Sven,” Yuri warned.
“Impossible, you could never be ugly. Inside or out. Your beautiful glow knows no bounds, Yuri. It’s one of the reasons I love you. People can’t help but gravitate toward you. They get just a hint of your light, and they come from miles around just to be near it.”
“Well, light or not, I can get pretty ugly when pushed into a corner.”
Sven cracked a grin again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gripped her face in both hands, his eyes peering into hers. She didn’t know what he was searching for, but he obviously looked for something. The longer they stood there staring, the more his face changed. She hadn’t seen the darkness behind his eyes for days. She’d thought it a figment of her imagination. Wrote it off as her own personal issues rising to put a stop to her happiness. But then it appeared again. As he held her, as he searched for answers, she saw it, peeking out from behind the current of blue.
“There she is,” he whispered moments later, the darkness firmly tucked away. “My beautiful angel, and her brightly shining light. You can pull any man from the darkest of places and bring him back to life.”
“How would you know?”
“Because it’s what you’re doing for me. I shouldn’t want you. Hell, I’m fucked up, and I know you know it; you just haven’t brought it up yet. But that’s okay. We’ll talk about my shit when the time is right. We’ll talk about yours, too. But for now, we’re in Brazil. A city that I love, with a woman that I love, and I plan to make the most of it.”
Midway through her second boiled egg, breakfast was interrupted by a blond woman sporting a too small bikini which made her assets look like two overripe melons covered by a strip of toilet paper. They bounced as she ran over to the table on her tip toes in high heeled red sandals, too much lipstick and matted weave in her hair. The sarong which clung to her fat injected ass, barely covered the thong bikini bottom as she stopped in front of their table, doing a happy girl spin showing DJ all she had to offer.
“Oh hell no,” Naima said, standing up.
Derrick’s eyes were wide as he watched Naima plant her feet, put her hands on her
hips and stand between him and what he knew to be a fan.
“Stop right there,” Naima said. “You see this man dining with me, yet you will be so bold as to interrupt our meal to attempt to lure him into whatever sordid idea has entered your empty head. What is it you want?”
The blond woman opened her mouth to reveal a row of small white teeth. “I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. I am such a fan. I only wanted a picture with him.”
“Where is your phone?” Naima asked.
To her shock, the woman stepped around her, rubbed her large breast going down the side of her body. “I seem to have nowhere to put one in this suit,” she said winking at Derrick. Naima reached back onto the table, picked up the remainder of her drink and dashed into the woman’s face.
“Back up chick,” she said. “No disrespect my ass. You are going to mess around and have me snatch that raggedy weave right out of your head. That is my man, so bounce your fake titties back where you came from and spread the word. He is off limits and mine.” The woman stood there in shock, her mouth open, covered in Naima’s margarita, which pissed her off more than the woman treating her as if she were replaceable when and if Derrick got bored.
“Why are you still standing here? Be gone,” Naima said, sitting back down. Picking up the butter knife, she looked at the woman, daring her to make a move. Turning in the ridiculously red high heels, she and her fake boodie, bounced away.
“Damn. Now my drink is gone. Wasted,” she said with a frown as she cut into the egg. Derrick only watched her, not sure what just happened. Naima sat eating her breakfast as if nothing unusual had occurred.
He cleared his throat.
“What?” She asked, biting into her toast.
“You don’t have any act right in you, do you?”
“Nope. I do possess a very large ass check book and I can buy some when the need arises,” she said with a wink.
Derrick chuckled at the freshness of her attitude.
Different. Very different.
“Thank you for that intervention. I became a bit of a recluse because of those types of encounters with women who immediately think I am some sort of sex machine always on the ready,” he said, looking at her.
“Aww man! You are not always on the ready? There goes my weekend plans,” she said with a twist of her lip.