Hiding behind your family’s restaurant was an office that was a private sanctuary rather than an office. Gloria Perez in Chicago was your mother and you were in your early twenties. The moment when you stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted to a warmer, heavier intensity of intimacy.

The dark walls were lined with family photos and oil paintings of Havana streets. A crystal chandelier hung over Gloria’s marble desk that was spectacular for your eyes. Her chair was high backed, black leather, with brass trim studs on the side.

Using your nostrils you could smell a lingering scent of her presence via her vanilla and jasmine perfume. It clings to your skin too.

A locked drawer holds her gloves and her weapon of choice. Another drawer holds letters never sent. On her desk were a silver ashtray with a Cuban cigar (you weren’t allowed to smoke ever).