the chic or the nigger

“The most dangerous animal in the world is a woman who doesn’t know her own power.”
The little chic cocked her head slightly. She didn’t like me.
“I can see you are uncomfortable with that statement.” I was uncomfortable with that statement. It probably shouldn’t be said to new folks but fuck it, I needed to talk.
“He’s going through a hard time right now,” Z added, laughed and said, “He’s been going through this hard time for three years now.” I laughed. The little chic stared stone cold.
Sigh. “I’m going through a hard time right now.” I wanted to shout out every detail of it, the girl, betrayal, the dishonest polemics, the empathy, the work, the love, the light, the truth. She didn’t want to hear it so I switched topics. “Who you voting for, the chic or the nigger?” NJ bastards can be gruff. The little chic was silent. The walls start going up. “I want Hillary, she’ll change the world through sheer power and will.” I said this even though I like Barack because he’s an artist with words. “I don’t trust her,” Z added, “and there’s no way in hell she can make it through the general election. Plus they are going to impeach her. They HATE her.” “What do you think?” I asked the little chic. “I don’t know, I don’t think of people on their gender.” She was full of PC nonsense. “I don’t either but I got to admit it feels better than four more years of cock n’ balls in the cream house,” I weighed in with increasing gusto. I wanted to weep. I excused myself, went back to the studio and wept. I missed the girl, god damn it, I wanted to rub her soft belly and sleep naked with the covers off.
The boy came slamming down the hall. He knocked; clunk, clunk, clunk. “Hey Daniel.” I opened the door and looked down. “I did two circles,” he said confidently from the driver’s seat of a red big wheel. “Two Donuts! Wow!” I felt proud to know him. “Daniel, can you read me a book?” I loved that. “Of course I can. Let me finish up some work and I’ll come over.” “OK, Daniel.” He always calls me Daniel and notices when others don’t. Children are smart. I tidied up, headed over and read him a righteous gargoyle poem.