Beyoncé is so happy to see you. She remembers you from even before “Bootylicious.” You are so surprised that she remembers you, you don’t think to be concerned.
Beyoncé is also tired. You can see it fan from the corners of her eyes, in soft paths that roll to her temples. You sit with Beyoncé, and sympathy gathers around you like fog.
Beyoncé says words and sentences. She wrote them for herself, with minimal consultation. They are mostly shaped from vowels. In the balcony at the back of Beyoncé’s larynx, under the piano bench’s seat, you find the lisp she has hidden there for years. You smile. You gently put it back because you know she will need it again someday, sooner than she thinks.
Just before Beyoncé is no longer so happy to see you, you glance out the window. You notice a tree branch scraping against the twilight rubbed over the sun. When you get up, you do not remember to say goodbye because being the first to do things is what Beyoncé does. And no matter who you are, you are not Beyoncé.
You walk back down the street by yourself, you unlock the door by yourself. Even though twilight has been pressed into full dark, you close the curtains. You sit on your beige carpeted floor, and you open your wallet. You feel along its edges for the newsprint. You take out the picture of Diana Ross that is right behind the bills. You unfold the picture, and you flatten it against the beige carpeted floor. You run your fingers along the unfolded paths and you smell the ink and the dust and you dream. You don’t ever need to see Diana Ross. You just know.