Learn to sing ‘stead of playing with them records and beep bopping. Muthafucking Christopher Williams-light-skin-good-hair-having and shit.
His headphones smelled of the Sportin’ Waves gel his uncle got him using- Bitches love good hair, Jack. Long dookie braids snatched to the top of her head, pulled her eyes into slim cat-like slits or Egyptian Cleopatra eyes, gold door knocker earrings bumped her cheeks, and the music in his ears animated her steps into a summertime breeze, the antithesis of the air outside. The song’s jam intro had ended, and the first mellow riff of the saxophone solo kicked in through his black bubble headphones right when Trina, wearing a concrete-gray puffy-coat that blended in with the city behind her, opened the store glass door.
and thinking of Trina McIver when shot inside the bodega on Fourth Street. Corbin was listening to Pete Rock and CL Smooth’s T.R.O.Y.
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