Disappearing Acts [antikvár]

Franklin All I can say is this. I'm tired of women. Black women in particular, 'cause that's about all I ever deal with. Maybe a fine Puerto Rican here and there, hut not much. They're all the same, that's for damn sure. Want all your time and energy. Want the world to revolve around them. Once you give 'em some good lovin', they go crazy. Start hearing wedding bells. Start thinking about babies. And want you to meet their damn family. They make you come and you'd swear they struck gold or somethin'. And the prettier they are, the more they want. Well, I don't play that shit no more. I try to make it clear from jump street. I ain 't serious. I got enough on my mind right now without getting all hung up and twisted up with another woman. Every time I turned around, my phone was ringing off the damn hook. "Hi, Franklin," one would say. And I would sit there and try to guess which one it was. "Whatcha doing?" What a stupid-ass question to call somebody up and ask. It oughta be obvious that I wasn't thinking about her, or else I'da called her, right? But naw. It don't work like that. They hedge. "You feel like some company?" And don't say, "No, I'm busy." All hell'll break loose then. "You got somebody over there?" I wanna say, "None of your fuckin' business," but that would be too cold-blooded. They wanna know what you doing every fuckin' minute of the day you ain't with