Candi yearns to feel his soft, full lips pressed against hers. And yet all she can muster is another “Coño.”
“Coño, it’s so hot!”
I push my curly locks away from my face, wiping beads of salty sweat from my forehead and coiled baby hair. I pull at my graphic tee in a swift back and forth motion, hoping to cool off from the NY summer heat. A drop of sweat trails down my neck and crawls down to my cleavage. It nestles in between my full C-cup breasts. I grab my smartphone and swipe up, landing on the weather app.
“102 degrees? There is no way I’m taking the subway.”
I begin texting my best friend, Yo, and brace for her disappointment when I cancel our plans. Yo, who lives in Manhattan, loves to paint the city fuchsia; I’ve been homebound in the ‘burbs of Long Island since becoming a single mom to my baby girl, Ava.
“Next weekend we’re going clubbing like the good old days,” Yo stated matter-a-factly while we were on the phone. We talk every night before bed without fail. A ritual that began once I moved out of our 2-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights and into Eric’s 4-bedroom house on Long Island.
“Do we have to?” I whined, “I’m so tired…and Ava will be with her dad. I just want to Netflix and chill…alone.”
“Candi!” Yo yelled, like a mom on the brink of calling her kid out by their government name. Yo could be as tough as an old school Dominican mother, ready to set anyone straight with a firmness and relentlessness that I envied. Only Yo was Colombian and didn't have any children.
“Fine. We’ll go to ‘da club’,” I caved.
And now here I am, crushing my supportive, loving and sometimes scary BFF’s plans.
“Friend,” I begin, “I have bad -”
“Devorame otra vez, devorame otra vez…”
I jump back, dropping my cell phone in the process. I haven't heard that ringtone in three years. Bending over, the sweat pools in my breasts as I cautiously pick up my phone off the floor. The song stops. My phone beeps. I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart. My hands clammy. Sweat seeps through my white tee, exposing my black bra. Swipe up.
“J,” I whisper.
My fingers dance around the keyboard as I try to find the words to express how shocked, resentful, and excited I feel in one fell swoop. I want to ask where he’s been. Demand answers. I want to feel his soft, full lips pressed against mine. I want him, but does he even deserve me?
I want to say so many things. And all I can do is text back, “Coño.”