She scrunched her jeans down to her ankles.
Sarah had a different kind of grace. The bones of her rounded back protruded through bare skin as she hopped on one leg to get her pant past her heel. Her naked silhouette looked out the window at the Harlem skyline. The afternoon sun illuminated the translucent ends of her auburn hair.
Even though she was only five-foot-two and six years older than me, it was hard to feel like anything but a child in her presence. Being twenty-five made me an adult out in the real world. But here, in The Wysiati, I was one of the kids. Her kid. The fact that I was sitting on her elevated bed and piddling my feet only added to the dynamic.
“So let me get this straight,” she said while looking through her dresser drawers. “The bitches won’t leave you alone, and that’s freaking you out, huh?”
I shrugged. She smirked. She began yanking clothes from the drawers. In moments, the carpeted floor was covered with her designer dresses, tops, and yoga attire.
This was what most of our coaching sessions looked like. Last month I earned the coveted position of being Sarah’s New York mentee. All the other ‘kids’ were jealous, some more obviously than others.
She turned to walk to her closet so that she faced me full frontal for just a moment. I tensed. She didn’t look at me directly but had a grin on her face. I knew that she knew that I was trying not to …
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