She just couldn’t stop herself. Although she didn’t hear a beep, she checked again. No text.

Her legs, her whole body was still sore two days later. Theirs was always a hurt-so- good type of fuck. When she got to his spot on Thursday, he answered the door wearing only gray sweatpants that hung down on his hips, illustrating how he spent his time when locked-up: sit-ups and tattoos.

As usual, he didn’t say anything; but, greeted her with eyes that spoke the words she needed to hear: “You are so beautiful.” His obvious thirst gave her the confidence to walk into his apartment, place her mauve Chanel bag on the milk crate, and begin undressing. Typically, she undressed herself, but this time, he came up behind her, gently pushed her on his bed, and pulled her pink lace thong off.

She faintly smelled dryer sheets, his cologne, and Dial soap. For a nano-second, she wondered if she was the only woman who had been on those sheets since the last washing; but before she could complete that thought, he was on her. Instantly, she became tiny; his large hands handling her. Where is hands weren’t his mouth seemed to be. It was a synchronistic funk: a strong, dirty, distinctive groove.

Strong bass: Boom. Boom. Che Boom. Then she heard a guttural, loud wail that startled her (they were, after all, in the Powell Projects). But she quickly realized that the sound came from her. Her mouth had no more control than her body—each being manipulated by his finger-play. She was his puppet; and he was a master puppeteer.

He stood up, nudged her right hip to guide her onto her back, stood up and looked at her, took off his sweatpants, while looking in her eyes, bent down, grabbed her legs and rested her calves on his shoulders. Boom, Boom che Boom, OOOOooooooooo…

She kissed him on the way out the door, picked up her Chanel bag and walked to her car. He never walked her to her car.

Just 48 hours ago. Thinking of it made her ache for it–not him, but it: feeling alive, the Funk. Her phone interrupts her thoughts. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Michael said in his slightly nasal voice. Michael: always a few years delayed in fashion and slang, Morehouse educated, who always left a Starbucks white chocolate latte on her desk every morning on his way to the Accounting department. He reminded her of her brother: sweet, yet corny.

“Thank you, Michael” “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too,” she replied.

After a few moments of polite banter, she pushes the end button, praying that she hears the beep indicating that a new text has come through. Nothing. She checks her Inbox anyway.

No text.