Across from Fremont Park

Sitting across from Fremont Park in the Sun & Soul, the taste of a Jamie Garcia special reserve cigar marching through my mouth like fire ant hordes, I await eagerly for a French press of Kenyan Nyeri so that the equally stout flavors can compete for attentions of my taste buds as my mind fashions a Nicaraguan wet dream. My taste buds transports me to a large patio of a 19^th century Central American plantation house close to the edge of an equatorial rain forest, overlooking vast tobacco fields swamped with the fruits of a midday rain. Sweating like a field hand, I sip a frozen Macuá while I blaze a fresh made cigar of perfectly aged leaf tobacco rolled by the hands of artisans, its Capa soft and supple to the touch; its scent spicy and oscuro coloring bespeaking its robust essence. The flavors swim and mix in my mouth, simmering like nature’s soup.

My afternoon demitasse is delivered by a cute barista in gray, wearing black net stockings with a fantastical pattern, engaging as her bright smile. Her aura sparkles of gold and turquoise and I desire to wear her like a favored piece of jewelry. The earthen colored mug she delivers looks deceptively cool, like wet clay in an artist’s hands, but my burnt lips reveals the true nature of its contents, a brew searing like volcanic mud. But the aroma, oh that delicious perfume, of roasted tree fruit, screams out to my olfactories, forcing me to tempt fate again, at least until my lips and tongue can withstand the punishment; piping hot pleasing pain.

Across the street in the park, dressed in a skimpy black something, a transgender woman (I can only tell because she had not tucked her package securely between her skinny thighs) works methodically with a large stroller full of her world. Every one of her possessions neatly folded and packed in its place, bungied tightly to avoid any loss, she looks up to see me gazing in her direction, “Have you been watching me this whole time?” Though I wasn’t, I admit to no less. “How did I do?” I exclaim my envy at her methodical touch and efficiency, admitting to my own failings and my desire of her skills. The smile on her face speaks volumes of her pride and the positive recognition ads a joyous lilt to her walk as she makes her way to the other side of the park in black stiletto heels.

She passes several people, two-legged and four-legged alike, some sleeping while others play fervent games of fetch with ragged green balls; all are sweating profusely. Only the slight breeze from speeding traffic made notable by the waving branches of youthful trees breaks the dead calm on 16^th street.

Two brown ladies break into the picture window of my thoughts, sitting on the near empty patio directly in front of me, as if to purposefully take my attention away from the performance across the street. Shinny pearls for teeth, a sharp contrast to the delicious cocoa flavor of their fleshy wrap. Sipping lattes and chatting over incidentals, occasionally they glimpse in my direction to gauge my attentiveness; their feminine egos stroked like the back of a silky black kitten. I imagine myself getting lost in their dark forever eyes, luxurious as a midnight swim on a tropical beach.

The cheerful scream of a child at the apex of their grounded flight pulls me away for a moment; the playground abounds with joyful minions, each seeking to reach that invisible point in their pendulous arc that will forever make them the bold adventurer. The coffee has reached its apex as well, its piquancy close to perfection.

Glancing down towards my technological fetters, my eyes catch the perfectly proportioned toes of Latina numero uno, painted cherry red like candy Red Hots, the fantasize that they might taste the same invades my brain. My eyes wander her sumptuousness, soaking in every nuance of her body, the lay of her red dress across her curves, the near perfection of her calves and thighs, the amplitude of her peaks, the supple lobes of her ears, eyes that smile without wrinkles and her dark hair shining in the noon sun like the wings of a Raven in flight. She catches me but I don’t look away, instead I stare into her eyes more intently as if to say “I can see your thoughts and hear your soul” then grin proudly and return to my coffee which has reached the perfect pitch.

Looking up through my eye lashes, I can see she has returned to her tête-à-tête, the lilt in her voice telling of her satisfaction with her effect on me, one more mollified customer.

The image of me softly kissing her red painted toes and sucking the cinnamon flavor from her Red Hots invades my aboriginal soul, epodic measures stream in my mind as I strive to find the idyllic connotations that will lead her to my Pantheon of lust, where I will attend her in a licentious Eucharist and hear her cry my name in heavenly release, giving the angels something more to be jealous of.

The last measure of my drink is tepid and lush with the matter of the fruit whence it came. Grit fills my mouth, passion fills my jeans and sounds of joy fill my ears like rushing waves, whilst my eyes glaze over

Across from Fremont Park.