These are her hands

Souliquacious was supposed to be the name of her father’s band, but before it formed it had already broken up. This even though Tuggs, the drummer, finally got clean, and Jackson, the bass player and keyboardist, had gotten out of jail, plus all the rough practices had gone pretty well and everyone had agreed they sounded good together. It was actually Souliquacious herself that put the pinch on their plans, for any aspirations the group may have had, her birth was the death, the coffin, and the nail that shut it closed. Her father, as a gesture to what could have been, gave his only daughter the name his band would never have.

And there she is, parading down the street, broadcasting with every twist of her hips that she doesn’t know you and would rather keep things that way. She’s with her friends, there are two of them, always, and they growl like bulldogs when you get too close.

When they talk to each other they speak as if they are alone, and when Souliquacious says something its always amped in volume, not that anyone would dare speak over her. They have long, loud discussion on the bus or subway, and if you give them a look that says could you keep it down please I’m trying to read, they roll their eyes and one of them, usually Souliquacious herself, will say, even louder this time, ANYWAYS, and go on with their discussion.

She likes to hold her hand up to you when you’re talking, as if she’s telling you to pause for something more important to hear, but she never says anything, she just walks away. Her nails are long and fake, ornate, and colored in a violent hue. Sometimes, if she has the money for it, she gets them decorated, maybe with a Chinese dragon draped in diamonds in attack position on her index finger, or maybe her full name, Souliquacious, in gold calligraphy down her pinkie. Her nails are always very impressive; they also break when she has to “whoop some bitches ass,” but not before they do some serious damage to the skank whores face.

Her hair is long and straightened, presumably, from the smell of it, with a hot comb, so that it falls down to her shoulder, or is very easily put into a bun. For a while she had long braided extensions, but they would get frizzy and nappy after a few nights sleep, so she undid them and went back to her somewhat natural style of a burned and processed ‘do. It’s a shame, because when she would toss that mane of horse hair over her shoulder after giving your outfit, look, or mere presence a brutal ice burn with her eyes, there was nothing on this great innocent earth that could match the sass she exuded.

Despite what people think, she doesn’t really dislike you, she actually doesn’t care much about your existence at all. She has a simple plan, a set agenda, and if everyone would just allow her to proceed with it, there would be no problems. She will be a brilliant wife, as long as her man knows where his place is, and a wonderful mother, providing her kids know how to take care of themselves. She is really quite a nice girl, if you just try to get to know her, just don’t call her So-quay-quay, she doesn’t like that.