End Of Babes

Everyone loves your nigga. This used to make you happy, proud, even, but then it got worse and eventually became a huge-ass problem. It was little things at first. One of the neighbors across the street would come over to talk to your nigga while you were at work. He would smile at your nigga. He would bring gifts. Eventually, he stopped waiting for you to be at work and would come over at all hours of the day and night to say hello to your nigga, to chat. Your nigga is polite and funny, charming, even, but has never been particularly outgoing. Eventually, you’d wake up in the morning to find the front stoop covered in presents from the neighbor for your nigga. Piles of gifts wrapped in beautiful paper, letters splashed with the most expensive cologne. One day, you couldn’t open the front door. “It’s just a lil crush,” your nigga said, but you couldn’t even find the fucking dog among the offerings. Then there were the dead animals. The neighbor would bring bloodied little critters and leave them on the stoop for your nigga. Rats and squirrels and small birds. Then dogs and cats. Then children and old people, then small adults, then that one girl from sleepaway camp you couldn’t stand. You had to move.
You don’t really get it, the way that everyone loves your nigga now. He fine and all, sure, but not finer than Idris or Michael B. Jordan, or even Drake, for that matter. His personality is what you would describe as fine. He has a good sense of humor, but he’s incredibly moody. He’s kind-hearted but not super friendly. Sometimes you spend the day looking at him, squinting your eyes this way and that, trying to figure it out and failing, utterly failing, because to you—he’s just your nigga. He doesn’t brush his teeth enough. He only recycles in front of company. He’s a 30 year old who stans Lil Durk. Plus, he’s a bad driver.
Y’all move to a different borough, to a different building with different neighbors. After a couple days, the new neighbors, men, women, and children, surround your building in a thick circle of bodies. They’re chanting your nigga’s name, uttering declarations of love. They press their bodies against the exterior walls of your apartment and moan. Some sensually, others like they’re writhing in pain. Several times, you wake in the middle of the night and hear hands clawing at the windows and doors. Parents try to shove their small children through your doggie door so the children can unlock the house and let them in. One night, you stumble into the kitchen and turn on the light to find a plump little boy stuck in the doggie door, one shoulder dislocated so he will fit. He is thrashing about, drooling on the floor. “I love your nigga,” he howls. “I love your nigga so much.”
You ask your nigga if there is anything he wants to tell you about this situation. He just shrugs and says no. He’s vexed that you disturbed him in the middle of the night when you know damn well he already has trouble sleeping soundly. “Honestly, it’s hella inconsiderate,” he says.
He’s such a bad driver that when you two go on the run, he never drives, only you. One morning, you pretend that you are heading off to work like usual, but you hide your nigga in the trunk of your car. You learn not to stop for cops, who only stop you to get to your nigga. You turn the car radio off after the radio stations stop playing music and instead dedicate themselves to your nigga, only your nigga, 24/7. I have not left the studio in six days, one DJ says. I have not eaten, and I only pee in a jar.
Obviously, this has strained your relationship. He is always annoyed at having to run and hide and spend all day in the car. You are scared that he is not taking this seriously enough. You are annoyed with him, yes, but only because he keeps making it so hard to keep him hidden and safe. You are trying to protect him. You are trying to make sure no one can take him away from you. Sometimes, after a fight, he raises an eyebrow and says, “I could just leave, and anyone I meet would take me in and protect me and treasure me.” You want to say, “You have no fucking idea what these people would do to you.”
You’s a damn lie. Every morning, you hit the road, watching over your shoulder for a fleet of cars chasing you down to steal him away. Sometimes your eye drifts over to your nigga, who has a bored look on his face, his cheek resting on one hand, elbow propped up on the passenger window of the car. He is so beautiful. You love this nigga so much, so violently. There is nothing you wouldn’t do for your nigga. Still driving, you lean over to kiss his neck.