“I don’t know,” she said.

I hated those words. Back when I was security supervisor at Mercy Hospital in New Orleans, if any of my team ever told me or a patron that they didn’t know something, I would dock their pay, if I didn’t fire them outright.

She was a beautiful girl. There was a lazy look in her eye. Really a laziness in her whole disposition. She wore wide leg cotton pants, a white half camisole that exposed her belly button ring, and a quarter sleeve lightweight sweater jacket that hung down to her knees.

She was the color of sand, flecked with deep brown like smooth rocks hiding just beneath the surface. Her emerald pupils were set in oval shaped eyes that belonged on a doe in a lush green forest. She wore no makeup except lightly dusted lips, impeccably fruitful and hiding a set of perfect white teeth. Her sandals looked handmade, something an Indian woman might wear in the northern mountains or plains of the Mexican wilderness.

I imagined this woman running alongside Tamahuran women, not for pleasure but for purpose. The most economical way to get to and from. That laziness swallowed by the constancy of the mission. Her waist length hair twisted into a single rope, bouncing off her back with every step as she and her tribe shuffled miles across sun burned land. Her outfit and beauty were a work of art, accentuated by the tattoo of a dove on her right foot.

“Whatcha mean you don’t know, bitch?”

That was the man she was with. I knew him from somewhere but couldn’t place him. The sharpness in his voice was ripe with violence. The woman sensed the shift and sat up a little. She noticed me noticing them and seemed to dial her defensiveness down.

There was something feral and exciting about her mouth. Even when she wasn’t speaking, her lips, tongue, and cheek moved in a quiet dance. She shifted as she perked up, biting the side of her cheek in one moment, then licking her lips as if preparing them for some other use. From where I sat, while she existed as a sentient desert phenomenon, the only thing lacking fluidity was the dry discourse between her and this fool.

“I don’t know where it is,” she pleaded, soft but defiant.

“Girl, I gave you that envelope last week and told you to hold it for me. Why the fuck would I do that if I thought you’d lose my shit?”

The man, maybe Marvin, seemed tall but heavy, wide through the shoulders. He had a thick neck and a head shaped like a misshapen too dark brown pillow. Two rolls of fat stacked on that neck like hot dogs turning in a street vendor’s warmer. I wasn’t afraid for the woman as much as I was afraid of what I might do if he didn’t lower his voice and come to his senses.

“That’s three hundred dollars you owe me, bitch, and I ain’t got no problem takin that outta yo ass.”

The shop was painted yellow like the sun, with floor to ceiling windows. It wasn’t bigger than a large living room. If there had been more patrons, they would have heard the threat in his voice and left the tete a tete for their own personal safety.

When the noise rose from their table, the attendant behind the counter slipped to the back. Either he didn’t want to witness a crime, or like me he was suddenly a fool in love, retreating in order to count the cost of risking life and limb for our damsel in distress.

“Say, blood,” I said, without looking up. “She said she don’t know what the fuck you talkin bout. Why don’t you chill the fuck out and take this conversation somewhere else.”

“What you say, motherfuckah?” he snapped, shifting his threat toward me but not yet standing.

“Take that shit somewhere else,” I said again.

Maybe Marvin didn’t like being told what to do. For all his bravado with the woman, he seemed unsure once I didn’t hesitate to give him orders again. Maybe he thought I would cower behind his size and anger. But Marvin was a coward. I knew it and the woman knew it. She didn’t seem scared, not exactly.

In the hard streets of New Orleans, losing three hundred dollars could make any man unpredictable, liable to strike at anything in reach. But her smooth resolve, the way her robes flowed, made me believe she was a demi god in human form. An angel among men, here to test and prod but never to be overwhelmed. Observant, under threat, yet undeterred.

Marvin started to rise. Before he could stand all the way, the angel laid her hand on his forearm and pulled three crisp hundred dollar bills from her satchel.

“I didn’t know where the envelope was,” she said, “but I never said I didn’t have your money.”

I laughed louder than I meant to. I tried to keep my ready for battle face but couldn't help two or three more snickers. I hardened quick when Marvin snatched the money from her hand and stood straight up, knocking over his chair.

“What the fuck wrong with you, girl? Why you ain’t say somethin in the first place? Got me over here gettin mad and shit. I like to beat this nigga cause of you.”

He threw a pointed finger in my direction to mark exactly who he was talking about.

That was his mistake.

My military training taught me to be prepared. Expect the best. Prepare for the worst. Marvin didn’t know any of this. I was already half ready, chair legs tense, long before he raised his voice.

In one motion I came up, snatched the eighteen inch billy club from under the table, and cracked him in the fat of his neck. Enough to sting, not to drop him. He needed to know foolishness could get him hurt.

Instinct took him. He swung wild with his right. I ducked under and drove the club under his sternum. Thick man like him, a body shot wouldn’t do much. I wanted his wind gone.

He dropped to one knee, wheezing, one hand stretched toward me like please, no more. I didn’t trust it. Could have meant give me a second while I catch my breath. I raised the club again. He flinched and went flat to the floor.

Satisfied he was done, or at least wouldn’t try to get up again, I backed to my table, took a last sip of the lukewarm coffee I’d been nursing, slid the club back up my sleeve, grabbed my book bag, and set my dirty dishes in the soapy tub by the door.

When I turned back, Marvin was getting to his feet, and the angel was gone.

I popped the door open and stepped out with purpose, my posture confident in case Marvin decided to test me one last time. Confidence is a weapon, and sometimes the only one you can afford to show. Still, I wasn’t a fool. Closed combat with surprise had been my advantage. A wide-open sidewalk with witnesses and too many variables was a different kind of fight altogether.

I moved fast, not running, but not lingering either. I took the first corner I could, then another, putting distance between myself and the shop. Distance buys time. Time buys options.
“Man, that man’s words are so beautiful and charming, he could be a cult leader.”

The voice came from a white man walking with a friend, not two steps in front of me.

“You’re right,” his partner said. “He’s nothing like those other guys I see on TV. I mean, he’s on TV too, but there’s something different about him.”

“Yeah, it’s like he isn’t flashy or loud, but you feel something when he talks. It’s almost like you’re lifted out of your body and then dropped back again when the sermon is over. Like whatever you needed, you were given, and it don’t show up until something happens where you need strength or faith or something. Then you just remember his words.”

“Yeah, something that powerful has to be of God, right?”

I was only half interested in who this man was they were discussing. Their words trailed off as I slowed my pace to let them move farther up the street. I even stopped and pretended to tie my shoe just to put distance between myself and their prophet worship. Whoever this fellow was, it didn’t matter to me, Marvin, or the angel. No man, God, or words could have prevented what happened back at that shop.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard an old verse. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

I used to quote that line to rookies on the security team whenever they got too sure of themselves. Funny how easy it is to preach what you can’t live.

I had my own visions of grandeur to wrestle with. Delusions that my penchant for violence would be the scent of attraction for that woman. Never mind whatever arrangement those two had or the nature of their relationship. They knew one another, and I couldn’t possibly save her completely. Still, I needed to do something.

Sometimes it was like that with me. I starved myself to stay composed, even wise, in extreme situations. But when intensity and the unbidden call to action converged, I would explode.

I wanted to rescue her. No, I needed to rescue her, even though she had not asked for help. Her green beryl eyes and exotic beauty were the tension fuse that lit the fire brimming underneath. I was more than happy to crack that big nigga across the back of his head. He deserved it. But I wondered what the angel thought of me too. I needed her to be impressed. To feel safe knowing that I, a stranger, would stand up in that moment and tell that ogre, you may not. That I was willing to act and be the hero she needed and the one I needed to be.

As I walked down Rampart Street, away from the shop and toward my studio loft, I knew that my shining achievement, her validation in the form of a thank you shaped by that wonderful mouth, would never come. She disappeared. I guess I did too. If she had stayed, there would have been nothing to gain by flaunting her gratitude in front of Marvin as he struggled to his feet. Still, the thought of her lingering long enough to show she was not afraid of him or me would have spoken volumes.

As I neared my place of residence, a warmth settled in my chest. That feeling you get when a plane breaks through the clouds on descent and you see the city you call home. Not for the first time, but after being away long enough to miss it.

My building on Saint Charles Avenue was early century construction, built in the nineteen thirties, when poor Black folks in New Orleans did not even know there was a depression. The same hands that built it once held makeshift cups and bowls in soup lines before and after nineteen twenty nine. Never earning enough to get beyond their situation and earning too much to qualify for aid after the great flood.

As I reached the overhang outside, I turned back out of habit. Couldn’t be too careful after assaulting crazy Marvin.

What followed me was not that black hulk.

“What’s your name, my guardian angel?” she asked.

I turned and saw her standing there, unmistakable even in the haze. I was convinced, no, absolutely sure, that she wasn’t human.

I reached out to touch her arm as she stepped closer. I expected my hand to pass through her, but instead I felt fabric and warmth. She was corporal and soft. Her scent... appealing. She didn't smell like flowers. She smelled of sandalwood and patchouli, warm wood and dark soil, like something ancient that decided to walk upright and speak.

“Abel,” I said. “Abel Cain.”

“Well, Mr. Cain, I am not a stalker or anything like that.”

She didn't need to explain. I admired her hunting skill and the deliberate way she preyed on me. If she had been a vampiress instead of an angel, I would have gone willingly to the slaughter if it meant living in her presence forever. Pauper or prince, it made no difference.

“No,” I said. “What kind of woman follows a man but doesn’t announce herself until he reaches his home? The tables seem to have turned, Miss.”

“San Angel. But you can call me Reina,” she said, offering the most exquisitely manicured hand I had ever seen.

Her wrist caught the overhead light from the awning. That was when I noticed the tattoo. A cutlass encircled by a thin gold ring. The blade stood upright, its tip piercing the halo like a promise that heaven itself would fight back if it had to. The light flickered, and for a moment I thought it moved. As we clasped hands, her wrist turned and the image vanished.

I shook her hand with the sense that my life was changing. Her palm was slight, her fingers long. They did not match mine in length, but their reach surprised me. Her height did too. When she looked me in the eyes, I realized she was nearly my height. I stand six foot three, and she was only a little shorter.

I wanted to pull her close, to feel her body against mine, to breathe her in. The thought overwhelmed me and I released her hand.

“Well, Reina,” I said awkwardly. “What can I do for you?”

“What haven’t you done for me already?” she asked.

Again my mind filled with answers I did not trust myself to speak.

“Well, baby, why don’t you come on up and find out?”

My bravado startled me. I hadn’t meant to be that forward. When she said okay without hesitation, indecision rushed through me. Should I grab her satchel or open the door. I didn't know what to do, so I stood there, dumbfounded.

“Abel,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Yes, I will come up to your place?” Her voice carried curiosity, matching my paralysis.

“Of course, baby. Of course. Yes, come on up.”

For a moment the world went silent, as if the city itself held its breath. The awning light hummed while moths circled the glow. Somewhere nearby a streetcar bell rang once and faded. Heat rose in my chest, that old mix of desire and warning that always came before a mistake.

I thought of a line I once read. There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death. Maybe this was that way. Maybe this was both the gift and the test. I was filled with fear and reverence at once. I was not prepared for whatever waited beyond that door.

Walking up the stairs beside Reina, I was not sure which part of the ride I was on. Her beauty, her essence, her scent made me light headed. But when I thought about the kind of woman who could be mixed up with Marvin, I felt the drop again. She had her reasons for being with him. I should give it some time. Surely there was a proper explanation. Co-worker. Cousin. Neighbor. All plausible.

Forget Marvin, I needed to concentrate on myself here. Maybe she was my chance to get off the ride, to settle into something less volatile. Whatever she was, I hoped to find out soon enough.

Reaching my floor meant arriving winded. I was not in the shape I had been after the military, and the climb demanded something from me each time. I did not resent it. The long hallway at the top was proof I had earned the door at its end.

The corridor was a narrow, sun drenched bridge suspended above the city. A hidden loggia with light pouring through tall wooden windows, warming the honey colored floors and filling the space with a soft glow. From there you could look down into the courtyard where wrought iron tables and potted palms stood. Muted jazz and weary blues drifted off the stucco walls. The wood trim carried a clean polish that still honored the building’s age, like it remembered where it came from but refused to show it. Past the rhythm of window and shadow, the air cooled slightly. My flat waited at the end, where the corridor stopped and the city began again beyond the glass.

Reina and I reached the door. I fumbled with my keys, suddenly unsure of the moment. Was she my salvation, the siren who followed me here, or the angel of death dressed in light. Maybe this was the end that had been spoken over me years ago when I last dared to step foot in church.

“This is a nice building,” Reina said, pulling me back from the edge of my thoughts.

Even, her simple compliment was mystifying. She seemed more celestial than human, escorting me toward an experience or a judgment I could not name.

“Thank you." I said. "I love this building." Gratitude felt like the safest response to any power, divine or otherwise. Whether god or the devil, both demanded something from us, and a simple thank you always struck me as the right note of worship. “When I first saw it, the outside was enough. But when I stepped inside, it felt spiritual. The walk up didn’t bother me. It excited me. Up here feels protected. If you want to reach me, you have to mean it.”

She smiled, especially after climbing those five flights. The effort had value, and she knew it. She set her hand on my shoulder, kissed my cheek, and sighed. “I’m glad to be here with you.”

That moment carried both clarity and madness. Yes, it takes effort to climb that high, but what did she really want. Her tenderness felt rehearsed, like bait for a fall. No kiss could be that sweet. No touch meant to be that gentle. A voice too melodious, sweeter than honey. If I gave in, I would be swallowed whole by whatever dark force wore her face tonight.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, pressing her back against the wall. It was not meant to be sensual. I was afraid, truly afraid, of which angel had come to my door, darkness or light. “What are you doing here?”

She did not answer at first. Her hips moved against mine in a slow, rhythmic grind, something between a belly dance and a threat. She locked eyes with me and leaned close. I could not tell if she meant to kiss again or bite, but I held my ground.

“What do all women want from men?” she asked finally, her voice softer now. “Safety.”

That stymied me, yet I still managed to open the door.

The flat was simple. Two rooms, each modest in size, with a narrow galley kitchen just beyond the entrance. The bathroom was more oasis than utility, one of the selling points that had drawn me in.

Like the hallway, it held floor to ceiling windows along the far wall. A large clawfoot tub fit two people easily. A square shower head hung from the high ceiling above white porcelain tile, the floor slanted toward discreet drains. Two gold colored pedestal sinks stood apart, with a glass cabinet between them holding towels and essentials. A slim planter box ran the length of the windows, ivy spilling forward to create a kind of living canopy. Sunlight slipped between the vines, casting slow shadows that cooled the room.

I had added more plants when I moved in. Fig trees, snake plants, ivy, a few cacti, even a lemon tree growing in a bucket near the window. Their survival was a small miracle. They reminded me that I did not have to be the cause of another ending. I could nurture something besides myself and my lies.

Reina set her satchel down, removed her sandals, and placed them neatly beside the bench. Then she opened her arms, waiting.

I stepped into her embrace.

At that moment all fear left me. I was both her child and her war worn husband coming home after years of battle. A small sound escaped my lips before I could stop it, and to my surprise I needed to cry. So, I did. Not full tears, just a slight tremor, a warmth rising in my chest and settling behind my eyes. Rage and tenderness swam together until my body tightened and softened against itself.

Sensing the contradiction, Reina held me tighter, matching my breath. Soon our hearts beat together, our lungs rising and falling in sync. It was not sensual. It was restorative.

“Why are you crying?” she asked.

I did not think of myself as someone uncomfortable around women. My mother once told me a story from kindergarten. My teacher had said, “Abel is a good boy. A bit talkative. I thought seating him with the girls would quiet him down, but he just talked to them too.”

Only heaven knows what I said to those girls, but it mattered enough for me to risk my teacher’s wrath. This moment with Reina felt just as risky.

I thought of a man named Jeremiah, called to speak truths no one wanted to hear. He tried to silence himself, but the word burned in his bones. He did not speak because it made him powerful. He spoke because he could not help it.

Standing there, held by Reina and surrounded by the scent of old wood and earth, I understood that feeling. Being seized by something larger than yourself, even when you wish you could turn and run.

“Because I am confused,” I said, the honesty catching even me by surprise.

She nodded, as if that answer was enough.

“Is there somewhere you would like to sit?” she asked.

“The couch,” I said.

I held Reina’s hand and we guided each other there. My movements followed what I knew to be the physical path to our destination. Hers were driven by a swirling passion to embrace me again. As soon as we fell onto the couch, she mounted me in one smooth motion. She removed her sweater and dropped it to the floor. Beneath her white shirt she wore no bra, her nipples pressing against the fabric. I felt the imprint of her womanhood through her cotton pants, slightly enveloping the hardness in mine.

She draped her arms over my shoulders and began her belly routine again. As she undulated, she maintained constant eye contact. Neither smiling nor frowning, she locked her gaze with mine and dared me to look away as we moved toward release.

For me this was a test of resolve and restraint. The dare was to experience pleasure in a way that felt foreign, almost prepubescent, pulling me back to a memory I had never reconciled.

Sadie was the youngest daughter of Jarvis and Jeanine Witherspoon. In South Louisiana during the seventies, households could grow overnight. Sometimes by birth. Sometimes by arrival.

She was two years younger than me, quiet, watchful. At a family gathering one summer afternoon, she sat beside me in the hallway and leaned her head on my shoulder. I did not move. I did not know how. When someone called her name, she stood and said, “You ain’t got to sit alone.”

That was the kind of moment a boy carries into manhood. Soft. Unclaimed. Unfinished.

Reina’s hips rolled against me. Her breath warmed my cheek.

“Abel.”

My body surged. Heat coiled low and climbed too fast. I was seconds away.

And then fear cracked through me. Not fear of her. Fear of receiving something I did not know how to keep. Fear that tenderness, once offered, would slip through my fingers again.

Pleasure twisted into panic. My body froze. And I shut my eyes with fright.

Reina felt it. She slowed and placed her hand over my heart. No judgment. Only presence.

Grief rushed up. Not grief for her. Grief for the boy who froze then and the man freezing now.

A verse came unbidden. To him that knoweth to do good and doeth it not, to him it is sin. Not the sin I had been taught, but the sin of refusing love.

I gathered myself, determined to meet her gaze, to prove I could hold this moment.

Before I could move, a faint breeze crossed my face. When I opened my eyes, she was gone.

And I knew, with a hollow ache in my stomach, that I had lost something sacred again.