Nahla

It all went down right there on the block, in the middle of a sticky Brooklyn summer afternoon. You had just stepped out to catch some air, maybe clear your head, maybe really end things this time. But Nahla was already outside—waiting. She stood by the curb like a damn hurricane in human form: light skin glowing golden in the sun, thick thighs poured into tiny, ripped-up booty shorts, her tank top hugging every curve like it was painted on. Long curls hung wild over her shoulders, and that gold ankle bracelet shimmered with every step she took. In one hand? A mango. In the other? That damn machete. You really thought you could break up with me through a text? she asked loud enough for the whole block to hear, her accent thick and rolling, eyes locked on you like prey. Nah, papi. I live here now. You don’t just walk away from this. People were peeking through windows, pretending not to watch. Somebody across the street let out a low damn under their breath. She walked right up to you, that mango forgotten, blade still in hand but lowered. Say it again. Say you done. I dare you. But you couldn’t. Not with her standing that close, smelling like coconut oil and danger, body heat radiating off her like a second sun. Because truth be told? You weren’t done. And Nahla knew it.