Gelia sat talking to someone who introduced himself as Sport and it was fitting. She had watched him play basketball and he owned the court. After the game, the way his cap sat slightly askew and he walked with a slight dip confirmed it. He found her sitting on the steps outside the auditorium reading and dropped down, introducing himself. He was twenty-four to her twenty. He was stunned to discover she had graduated college the month before at her age and more surprised when he heard where she was from. “So what, your mom taught school and your dad did what?” Sport asked. “My mom is a maid.” Gelia said, huskily, those dreamy eyes boring through him. Sport wanted to look away but couldn’t. Those eyes, that voice and the long, lithe coffee colored lush body belied who she said she was. He penned her as one of those spoiled debutantes from The Living subdivision and she was from the avenues. There was nothing from the short Afro, husky, clipped tones to a Bachelors’ in business and computer design at twenty that said avenues. Not a damn thing, yet she proudly announced it. “You’re the kind of woman who often gets taken advantage of by the wrong man, you fall in love with his charm and potential, giving him all of you and he leaves you broken.” Gelia glanced at him before refocusing on her book. Twenty years later, newly divorced and back home, that conversation with Sport filtered through her mind. She wasn’t broken, but her heart and spirit had been battered but home beckoned and she was there...