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?”