The music was low but the laughter was loud. Glasses clinked, wings were half-eaten, and I leaned back in my chair with that smirk I get when I know I’m about to stir the pot.
“Listen,” I said, waving my hand like I was swatting flies, “I don’t care what y’all say—Common can get it. Ever since *Just Wright* I knew he was more than just a rhyme and a hoodie. That man got gentleman energy. He’s the type to open the car door for you, kiss your hand, then wreck your whole weekend.”
“Yasss, sis!” one of my girls hollered, fanning herself with a napkin.
“And don’t even play with me about **Tank**,” I continued. “That man sings like he been reading women’s journals since birth. I don’t even care what song—when he say *Can We*, baby, the answer is *yes we can*. Yes, we did. Yes, we will again. He got me ready to move my couch out the way and call out of work tomorrow.”
The table screamed, and one girl slapped the table so hard her drink almost spilled.
But I wasn’t done. “And let’s talk about **Morris Chestnut**. Whew! That man is the franchise player, period. He could school me in algebra, geometry, P.E., whatever—hell, he could school me in *tax law*. He got that forever fine that don’t expire. When Chestnut walk in, loyalty just seems like the only option.”
The girls hollered, one yelling, “Preach!” like she was in church.
Then I leaned forward, voice dropping low like I was sharing a secret. “But baby, **Trevante Rhodes**? *Mea Culpa* had me ready to confess all my sins. That man could paint me and call it art, and I’d be the exhibit in his private collection. He got that dangerous fine—the kind you know you shouldn’t touch, but your hand still reaching.”
“Girl, stop!” one of them squealed, but she was laughing so hard tears rolled down her face.
“And look,” I said, throwing my hands up, “I used to think Trey Songz was it. Thought he was my cup of tea. But nah, I grew up. Still, if he ever was? Baby, the neighbors wouldn’t just know his name—the HOA would be filing noise complaints. The mailman would hum it. Amazon drivers would start singing backup!”
By now, the whole table was hollering, napkins flying in the air like parade confetti. The waitress even side-eyed us from the corner, but I wasn’t finished.
“Now y’all know I gotta add **Idris Elba**. *Daddy’s Little Girls*? Whew, chile. That man can fight for custody of me any day. I’d be in the courtroom like, ‘Yes, your honor, I *am* the evidence. Please grant him full rights.’”
“Not the evidence!” my best friend cried, nearly spitting out her drink.
“And **Method Man**?” I said, shaking my head. “*Power Book II*. Lawd. He can do all my dirty deeds while I remain free. He’s the only man that could make me commit a crime just so he could defend me. Shoot, I’d rob my own fridge just to get him on retainer!”
“Girl, you gone straight to hell!” somebody shouted, but they were doubled over laughing.
“And then… **Denzel Washington.** Lord have mercy. Denzel been taking me home since *Runaway Train*. That’s classic fine, baby. He’s the one your mama and grandma both had a crush on, and they passed it right down to you. He don’t just act—he takes you home. With him, it’s legacy fine. Forever fine.”
The table was in *shambles*. Drinks shaking, chicken bones abandoned, voices bouncing off the walls.
I leaned back in my chair, lifted my glass, and grinned. “See, this don’t make me a whore. It makes me a curator. My roster ain’t random—it’s a museum. Common, Tank, Morris, Trevante, Idris, Method, Denzel. A living, breathing Hall of Fame. And if appreciating that kind of art is wrong…” I took a sip, eyes sparkling over the rim of my glass, “…then baby, I don’t ever wanna be right.”
The whole table screamed, banging on the wood, and my homegirl clinked her glass to mine. “Sis,” she said, shaking her head, “if appreciation is a crime, we all doing time tonight.”
And just like that, the laughter carried us through the rest of the night.
