Speeding across Brooklyn on a hot July afternoon in Hanane’s car, Yasmin tells me about Harper Lee, how she had been reclusive and almost never questioned for it. She tells me this because an Atlantic article was just published, comparing the novelist to who but Frank Ocean, citing the time it took them from project to project; a fascinating similarity. Later, my feet in the sand, Adam shows me the memes:
#WaitingforFrank
#WheresTheAlbumFrank
We laugh as we get high on the beach, making do with what’s been given to us.
***
On a hotter July night, I wait for the subway with George and Julian and we talk about disappearing, how heavy that sweet impatience wore on our backs.
***
I think I waited so long for Frank because I came out of Ramadan with tired ears. I needed a prophetic rhapsody, some soft muscle for my aching memory, green hair for my body to grow in.
***
Before he leaves the city, Marcelo throws a going away party and invites me. On the Facebook event, he promises they will have different people on shifts, just waiting for the album to drop. This is August, so he feels lucky. I never made it up to Yonkers. I don’t know if this actually happened. I spent that night with Misho, planning what little time we were about to have in Cairo. This is joy, this is summer.
#WheresTheAlbumFrank
***
I woke up on a Thursday in Cairo and by the grace of God the album was just there on my phone. Mama told me to pack because we were leaving soon, but I stayed in bed, headphones in. I wanted to dance, not celebrate per se, but dance. My body had always trusted itself with Frank, at least more than it did with me. My father came in to remind me that we had to leave soon, so I paused the album for later, only to realize there were not that many songs I could really dance to.
