My knees remembered the morning. My thighs remembered three days. My chest remembered the tent. My mouth remembered vows spoken where plastic chairs squeak and names echo longer than they should.
I whispered again, not to win over the room, just to keep my insides from running. “A gentle and quiet spirit is precious in Your sight.” I don’t know if I am gentle. I know how to be quiet. I hold that line like a rope.
The ring warmed. It always does when I press it like this. I breathe until the heat from it turns into air I can use. I breathe until the part of me that wants to lean into the steady that Saint offers steps back from the edge. I breathe until the picture of Ro at the grave softens enough to fit on a shelf where it belongs—not gone, not bleeding.
My phone on the counter lit and buzzed once?—
Lani: You straight? Food for tomorrow if you want it.
Me: I’m good. Save me a plate
She will anyway. She knows my lies and feeds me through them.
I clicked the lamp off. The apartment changed temperature when the light left. Not colder. Just honest. The night outside had finished its tantrum. The hallway settled. A car door closed two buildings down. The fridge kicked on. Small sounds. House sounds.
I went to bed, chain still around my neck, ring warm at the center of me—small weight, heavy meaning. If only he knew how deep our souls ran together. I lay on my side facing the crib so I could watch her breathe. I stretched my palm out to touch the edge of the mattress and anchored there.
Peace tried to creep up the blanket. I let a little of it in. Not enough to replace fire. Just enough to sleep.
“I’m a wife,” I reminded the dark. “I keep my vow.”
The room held. Outside the windowpane, water dripped from the roof in a slow count. Down on the curb, a shadow shifted and then settled—quiet watch posted. I knew who it was. The pull didn’t vanish. It didn’t need to. I named it and left it at the door.
My wedding ring stayed warm against my skin. The last of the rain thinned to oblivion. The radio leaked the tail end of a chorus and fell to hush. I whispered, “God give me strength like only You know how to do.” And with that my eyes fluttered shut until my mind finally rested.
Marisol "Lani" Cruz
Soul Food Smoke
Recommended Song: On & On by Erykah Badu
The key sticks like always,so I gave the doorframe a good hip check.Cruz’s Soul Foodflickered above me in purple neon, half the letters buzzing like they need prayer. Ain’t nothing pretty about this block, but this little shop? It’s my world. I made sure that I spared no expense when Cruz finally let me out that house. I needed to breathe. I walked over to the radio, and my favorite song filled the speakers around the restaurant.
First thing that greeted me as I walked into the kitchen to turn on the fryers was grease. Grease never leaves no matter how much bleach I pour down these floors. It’s in the walls, in my hair, in the mini-Bible sitting by the register with flour smudges on the cover. Grease and coffee—that’s our perfume. I breathe in deep, flicked on the radio behind the counter.On and Onby Eryka Badu slid through the static, and for a second, I closed my eyes and hummed along because R&B in the morning was medicine after a long, lonely night for a lady like me.
I took a look around the restaurant to ensure that my workers did what was supposed to be done at closing last night.Counters wiped down, bills stacked crisp, coins rattling in the drawer. Yesterday’s problems filled the place, bellies full but wallets tight. That’s grief. They love you in spirit, but pockets stay closed. Still, I keep my husband, Cruz, name alive in neon and grease while he’s out “handling business.” Truth is, I’m married to a man who’s married to his patch. I get what’s left, and sometimes what’s left don’t feel like enough.
I sighed, dropping the wings in flour, letting the fryers pop away. Grease splattered against my arm, and I didn’t even flinch. Been burned way worse. Life has taught me not to jump at every sting.
The doorbell above the door leading to the outside jingled. Alerting me of my morning regulars heading in.
Old heads began shuffling in, damp jackets and all. They smell of rain, cigars, and last night’s cheap brandy. One of them drops his LA Times on the counter, front page half-soaked.
“Mornin’, Lani.”
“Mornin’, Earl,” I answer, pouring his coffee black. No cream, no sugar—man’s been bitter since ’78.
Two more slide in behind him, talking loud like always. One’s clowning about the Lakers game last night, the other arguing about Shaq’s free throws like he got stock in the man’s hands. Same tired debate every week, but it keeps them breathing, so I let it ride.
A pair of kids wander in, bookbags slung low, sneakers busted. They stare up at the board like they dreaming. I know the look—hunger mixed with pride. Before they even fish out quarters, I slid two biscuits with honey across the counter. “Eat first,” I told them. “You solid. Count later.”
They mumble thanks, eyes wide, amazed at the gesture. But they didn’t know that’s why I kept this place open. The streets feed them poison; I gotta feed them something real. Theyneeded more than what those coins could get, and this was my way of giving back to my community.
In came the mailman next, drops a joke cornier than his uniform socks. “Rain trying to outwork me,” he laughs, grabbing his to-go cup. Old heads groan, kids chuckle, and for a second the spot feels alive.
But gossip slips in like smoke under the door. Always does.
“Sal owed the mayor’s boy more than a handshake from what I heard.” Earl yelled out.
