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“Winnie” is her Winchester 1895, with a walnut stock, an engraved slate-gray receiver, and a twenty-four-inch barrel. I’m not big on guns, but got to admit—that’s one damn pretty killer.
“White folk don’t care ’bout pepper and spices. Like they food bland as water.”
Chef don’t care much for it, what she call Bolshevik rantings.
And you ain’t thinking on him?” “Maybe I is, or I ain’t.”
His arms slip around my waist and without another word that music snatches us up, willing us to lose ourselves to it, like it got its own magic. For a brief moment all thoughts of Ku Kluxes and bad premonitions fade away. So that there’s nothing but the music and all of us being baptized in its healing. It’s more than I can take.
"I was so caught up in the euphoria of having all that apple juice that for like a minute I lived in a world where racism didn't exist."
Whole time he begging like a man starving.
I jump awake, breathing heavy and don’t mind saying scared as shit!
If I didn’t have this wonderful sun-kissed skin, I’d be a perfect shade of scarlet.