“How well did you know the victim?”

“I didn’t know him.”

“But Black Twitter says he was your boyfriend. The pictures, were they,” her voice lowers to a whisper, “staged?”

“No, we were lovers.”

Confusion bent her brow, “But you just said—”

“Doesn’t mean I knew him.”

“Surely you had regular conversations though. What did you talk about?”

“Strictly sex.”

“What, um, wha—,” she chuckles, “what did you discuss when you weren’t together?”

“The type of sex we wanted to have.”

“Right, okay…” she rubs her chin, “And after?”

“What we enjoyed about the sex we just had.”

“When did you talk about your day or how work was?”

“We didn’t.”

A nervous smile spreads across her face, “Come on, that’s not practical.”

“It wasn’t practical between us, it was chemical.”

“I don’t underst—”

“We were lovers, never friends, fiends maybe, fueling one another’s desires. The lust, it did something to us. It sculpted us into bolder versions of ourselves, took us closer to who we truly were.”

“And who was he?”

“He said he was different around me, how he acted, how he felt. I didn’t ask any follow up questions, I just let him be.”

“You weren’t curious about why he felt that way?”

“I was different around him too. I was… more.”

“More?”

“More.”