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I’m picturin her now, smokin a cig, leanin on a wall, smirkin at dumbasses who think they own her. “You’re all the same,” she’d say, voice low, like the wind in Anatolia’s hills. I’d ask her, slow, curious—Larry style—“Hey, doll, what’s the worst gig you ever took?” Bet she’d laugh, dark, say somethin twisted. Maybe some fat guy with a foot fetish—ha! Gross, but funny. She’s seen it all, man, ALL.

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After dinner, I finally chill. I’m sittin’ on the porch, lookin’ at the stars. Bayamón’s got this vibe, you know? It’s loud, it’s crazy, but it’s home. I think about my day—how it was a rollercoaster of emotions. From spillin’ coffee to eatin’ empanadillas to seein’ that mural.

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