Sharlene Alba

As soon as you drove into East Harlem, also known as Spanish Harlem, you knew you were in a different world. The Puerto Rican culture was strong here. You could feel its rich history ingrained within its streets and its proud residents. The scent of authentic Puerto Rican food flowed out of smaller restaurants like Cuchifritos, and blew throughout the area, making the rest of us realize how long it has been since we've eaten something homemade.

I was twenty-three when I received the keys to my first studio apartment at Three-Forty-Seven Manhattan Avenue. No kid my age could afford such a thing. Especially with a record under my belt. But with Willie’s help at the time, he managed to get my record expunged and forced me to use the certification I gained during my two year stay in jail to get the kind of job that could help me pay the bills. Who knew learning about how to fix computers and shit would come in handy. Of course just fixing broken screens and replacing dead batteries weren’t enough to sustain the rent alone. Willie helped me get into a city program that paid for at least half and the rest I had to cover. Hence where RideShare came in. I’d heard about it one day while grabbing a quick bite to eat downstairs at the corner store and managed to get the details from the store owner who frequently used the ride service. Not too long after that, I was part of the RideShare explosion and picked up passengers from the airport almost every weekend when I wasn’t working at my other job.

The sound of your name used to send shock waves throughout my body, informing me of your invading presence and the paradise that followed. Which was why I wasn't surprised at the inner turmoil coiling about inside me as I turned to catch your gaze from across the room. The gallery was crowded tonight, full of potential clients and investors, friends and family as well. And yet all that seemed to capture my attention was the wildfire in your chestnut eyes, tempting me to get lost in them once again.

My heart was beating a thousand miles a minute. My hands shaking with anticipation of what was to come. The moment the cab driver pulled up in front of your house, I stopped breathing. I felt you before I saw you, my breaths coming in slower pants, my tongue darting out to lick my lips. You were leaning against the front gate, looking as sinful as ever. We locked eyes as soon as I stepped out of the cab and you paid the driver. We didn't have to greet each other. Our heated gazes did that for us. And you obeyed the eagerness in your eyes by placing your hands on my waist, pulling me closer to you. My arms wrapped around you, the scent of your cologne making my clit throb with need. I inhaled your scent deeply and buried my face into your neck, my grip on you tightening, yours on me as well. Your crooked grin could kill me alone. Just like it always has. I kissed all the way up to your lips, but you stopped me before I could devour them. You took my face into your rugged hands and looked into my soul before you spoke.

You reminded me of New York. Where the filthy and sleepless streets sparked the recollection of your mouth between my thighs, while our bodies were parked in an alleyway at night. The gritty sounds flowing throughout the city made my pulse race, thighs quivering, while eating lunch on the freshly cut grass in Central Park. I haven't felt you this much in years. But just like this infectious and addictive city, you have a way of making me feel at home even when I'm lost.