harlem

“I like those pants you’re wearin’, baby,” he said, leaning back in his chair, propping himself against the red brick wall, adjusting his Bluetooth. The woman didn’t turn her head. Kept walking. Maybe even quickened her step, a bit. But she did grin. “Brother, you got to get yourself down here, man,” he says, next. “It is some fine Saturday afternoon.” It’s the corner of West 140th and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. About halfway between Central Park and the Yankee Stadiums. Harlem. The sun is shining. The cherry trees are blossomed. A cool breeze wafts. Friends visit in front of the We Got What You Want dollar store. Kids giggle and chase one another past DeeDee’s Hair You Do salon. A different voice says, “Honey, I know you didn’t pick up because you knew it was me. C’mon, now. Don’t do that thing.” Life shimmers, glides along, throbs gently, pleasantly. Out in the open. With a smile, even. After all, it is a fine, Saturday afternoon, here. And: She did look good in those pants.