The Lemonade

She was the kind of beautiful that made other men careful around her.

Modest.

The only woman I ever heard say her body was her temple and actually mean it — the man she was with for a year couldn't so much as have the lights on until she decided she was ready.

I knew her from freshman year, when she thought I was just a loud kid in the hallway.

By senior year something had changed, in her or in me, and we started talking.

Really talking.

She had somebody. I had somebody. We liked each other anyway, the way two people do when the timing just won't cooperate.

Prom came.

I went with my girlfriend, had a good night.

But her family wanted her home, her sisters wanted her time, everybody had a claim on her — and somewhere in all that competing for attention, me and her just ended up with more of each other's than either of our actual partners got.

Years later I was in the streets, deep in it, and broke by my own definition — everybody who hustles has a number in their head below which they consider themselves broke, and I'd gone under mine.

I'd left product with her to hold, months back, because she was safe and she was trusted.

I went to get it back.

She poured me lemonade like it was any other visit.

I asked for the stuff.