When a woman opens her door and refrigerator to strangers strictly because of a familiar last name the last thing you do is question the rust resting on her eyelids.
The first time I met Flatbush she was a thick brick-***** woman with stone-seasoned hair sculpted above her head and a *** of greens anchored at her waist. She was a winter day warmed by a sea of arms pouring from the jaws of a crooked screen door.
She wanted nothing more than to 5 o'clock traffic drown me in comfort and comfort food so I let her.