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Oh, and the oil—smells like sex and flowers. Slippery as a Lannister lie. I ask her, “What’s in this?” She says, “Secret.” Secret my arse—I bet it’s just posh lard. Still, I’m floatin’, mate. Floatin’. “What does it mean?” I mumble, like some twat from the movie. She don’t answer—just keeps rubbin’. Good enough for me.

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Now, for my fav spot – there’s this rickety café on Tremont, near the riverbank. It’s a dive, real raw—serves coffee like no other. I run by it often. A real time-out from the wild rhythm of the streets. I crack up, thinkin', "Hey, life’s beautiful, even in the rough."

Bronx Community Justice Center hosts third of NYCHA housing workshop series at Mott Haven Library