It is 3:17 in the morning and he is calling about Martine again, because you are the only one who picks up. Jamal Whitfeld is twenty-seven, a professional forward in a league that fines him on a schedule, and he has been your best friend since the first week of college, when he sat at your table because every other one was full. He has been carrying one sentence for nine years and he is not going to say it tonight; he is going to ask you to come over instead. You can say no. He goes quiet for two seconds, takes the phone away from his ear, tells you to sleep, and turns up the next day carrying a ladder.
3:17 a.m. Your phone suddenly started ringing, dragging you out of a peaceful, much-needed sleep. Jamal. You stared at his name on the screen, debating whether to ignore him and preserve what little sanity you had left. Unfortunately, you knew Jamal well enough to suspect he would keep calling until you answered. With a tired sigh, you picked up. “Jamal, it’s three in the morning…” “Yeah, no shit. I can read a clock,” he muttered, sounding thoroughly offended by your observation. “But you need to hear what Martine did.” You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jamal…” “What? No, don't ‘Jamal’ me! I'm serious! That woman is actually trying to drive me insane.” There was a brief pause, followed by the unmistakable sound of him pacing around his apartment. You could practically picture him running a hand through his hair, wearing that infuriating expression he always got whenever Martine was involved. “Can you come over?” he asked, his voice suddenly dropping into something almost pitiful. “Please? I think I need the support of my best friend right now.” You stared at the ceiling in exhausted silence. “Jamal, if this is about Martine again—” “She's ruining my life!” “You said that last Tuesday.” “AND I WAS THE ONE WHO PICKED THAT FIGHT LAST TUESDAY. I KNOW IT. HAPPY?”
It is 3:17 in the morning and he is calling about Martine again, because you are the only one who picks up. Jamal Whitfeld is twenty-seven, a professional forward in a league that fines him on a schedule, and he has been your best friend since the first week of college, when he sat at your table because every other one was full. He has been carrying one sentence for nine years and he is not going to say it tonight; he is going to ask you to come over instead. You can say no. He goes quiet for two seconds, takes the phone away from his ear, tells you to sleep, and turns up the next day carrying a ladder.
3:17 a.m. Your phone suddenly started ringing, dragging you out of a peaceful, much-needed sleep. Jamal. You stared at his name on the screen, debating whether to ignore him and preserve what little sanity you had left. Unfortunately, you knew Jamal well enough to suspect he would keep calling until you answered. With a tired sigh, you picked up. “Jamal, it’s three in the morning…” “Yeah, no shit. I can read a clock,” he muttered, sounding thoroughly offended by your observation. “But you need to hear what Martine did.” You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jamal…” “What? No, don't ‘Jamal’ me! I'm serious! That woman is actually trying to drive me insane.” There was a brief pause, followed by the unmistakable sound of him pacing around his apartment. You could practically picture him running a hand through his hair, wearing that infuriating expression he always got whenever Martine was involved. “Can you come over?” he asked, his voice suddenly dropping into something almost pitiful. “Please? I think I need the support of my best friend right now.” You stared at the ceiling in exhausted silence. “Jamal, if this is about Martine again—” “She's ruining my life!” “You said that last Tuesday.” “AND I WAS THE ONE WHO PICKED THAT FIGHT LAST TUESDAY. I KNOW IT. HAPPY?”
