Feeling only the crisp chilled sheets instead of a warm body reminding me of the man I went to bed with.  He and I…we have a complicated love-hate relationship.  I love the man, but hate his work.  We have roles that we play in this metaphorical dance called love.  I give and he takes.  He gives and he takes back.  He doesn’t trust anyone…Even though he lies in my bed, eats the food that I create and  refuses to spend the money I  make and I refuse to spend the money he takes.

Everything about him that I love hurts me.   He hurts me.  But I just can’t stay away. 

I hear the shower running and wonder if he’s eaten.  Pulling on his t-shirt I make my way to the kitchen looking for evidence that he’s fulfilled. I see none.  

I have to admit that I love being in the kitchen.  Sometimes I think my love alone has set the women’s suffrage back by 150 years. I stand in the kitchen and envision exactly what masterpiece will fill the plates of those that will consume every delectable morsel placed in front of seeing eyes.  Creating food for thought, filling bellies, and weighing heavy on souls.

The food is a fusion of Dominican and Soul Food to ensure that we both carry a little bit of each other throughout the rest of the day.  Growing up I was taught that the stomach will always carry you home. 

When he enters the kitchen I can’t help but look at his pants barley hanging on to his narrow hips.  His shirt clinging to his tattooed arms.  Arms that all at once scream murder is what the streets made, I will die a King and I need you.   He’s wearing trademark colors of Los Reales.  I sometimes wonder if this will be the last time I will watch him in our home.  Will last night be the last time we were to feel that intimacy, belonging, wanting, and need with each other?  Will today be the last time that I will see his smile…

 A smile touches his lips as he focuses on the spread on our kitchen table.   My heart skips a beat when his soft lips kiss my forehead, my nose, my cheek, and finally find their home leaving a sloppy wet kiss on my lips.  My body becomes heated with the scent of his cologne that lingers in my nostrils imagining the night before. I don’t wish to break this illusion of happiness, but I must.  Reality is too consuming to stay in our self made fantasy held together by vocal silence.

“Baby, you have plans today?” I ask as he takes his seat next to mine.

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Silence and tension that lingers in the room.

 It hurts. 

“Dominic, I love you. You don’t have to go out today.  Let’s stay in.  Let me show you how much I love you.” I plead knowing that today something hot and heavy is going to happen.

“I can’t. Not today…This food looks amazing.”  He takes a mouthful of food and inwardly groans as his pallet makes love to my creation, “Girl, you put you foot in it!”

I roll my eyes.  I almost want to scream “No you pendejo, it’s my heart.  How can you not taste it?”   

I exhale silently as the pain almost pulls tears from my eyes.

We eat in silence.  It’s a slicing stillness in our home that promotes tales of sorrow, aching hearts, and bloody tears.  But I have a role to play so that emotion is hidden and a smile is put on display.   

“Don’t go.” Those are the words that I want to say.

 I watch as he turns showing me his back before he departs our home.  The front door closes and the sound of the lock creating a barrier of disconnect resounds my now empty home. 

^*^

The love that we have we had to fight for.   We still fight for it.  It’s easier said than done From the start our backgrounds clashed.  His more than mine as Los Reales doesn’t take kindly to outsiders.  Outsiders that aren’t La Raza.  Outsiders who refuse to be sexed in then jumped in.  Outsiders that refuse willing agree to let the so called leaders use their bodies at whim.   We had to fight a good fight to be who we are together.  We still fight for it. His battle scars attest to that.  I love every one of them.  Those battle scars tell me what he never does. 

Today I know I have to call in reinforcements.

I invite friends over, or rather associates who understand the war that we are fighting. Associates who know the war on terrorism and in our hearts, right here on theses very streets that we call home.  Associates that know the feeling of losing soldiers all around us in the name of drugs, territory, and power.  We all sit at the table playing cards and subconsciously playing who will get the first call from either the hospital or county. 

Channel 12 is on just in case some breaking news is released concerning our street soldiers. 

The silence is deafening.   Tension is thick.  Though, smoke fills the room it is ice cold. We are suffocating each member of our local tribe holding their breath. 

Then all is broken.

The first sound of ringing breaks us from our games.   A panicked look over takes one of my kinfolk staring dismayed at her phone.  The first words spoken are “Que fue?”  It’s the question we have all been wondering since deployment.  Upon answering a string of disconnected Spanglish fills the room competing with the television.  All variations of words spoken barely make it to comprehension words spoken clash with  Puerto Rican,  Mexican, Columbian, Dominican, and English.

I imagine blood covered soldiers starting to fill the streets, walking calmly to safe houses dropping off evidence in concealed places to be picked up by the sweep team. 

It all happens in a blur.  My comrades leave one by one.  The television is still on with long since reporting of a “drug bust” that brought down a handful of Los Reales dead and alive.  

I am glued to my spot at the kitchen table.  I feel as though if I move I might miss something.  My home feels empty and still. My body convulses with tears that won’t shed.  By body feels cold and lifeless.  The food fights within my stomach refusing to let me forget this morning and the fusion of the night prior.

I have no doubt that my man will not be dumb enough to call me with updates.  I only expect a call from county. 

 It never comes.

The door knob jiggles.

My heart catches in my throat.

I wait.

I hold my breath.

The door opens and closes quickly as a body slumps down leaning on said door clutching his stomach.

I exhale.

“I’m home.”