I lift my sagging cheeks with my fingers and sigh. They say melanin don’t crack, but at 45, I see my face aging more and more every day.
“I thought my ancestors would save me from this shit,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing a brush to comb my temporary jet-black hair. My grays are already growing since my last appointment with my colorist six weeks ago.
I place the comb away in the top drawer and stare at my reflection. “Who’s going to want me all wrinkly and gray?”
My eyes well up with tears as the reality sinks in: I’m a single, 45-year-old woman who isn’t getting—or looking—any younger. I shake off the dread and the fear that I’ll be single for the rest of my life. That I’ll grow old…alone. I take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and prepare to hype myself up with a mirror work exercise that I learned from a TikTok mindfulness creator.
Bzzz!
My phone lights up. Peter.
“Is he crazy? It’s 1 am!” I turn back to the mirror, ignoring the phone buzzing on the counter.
“I am chosen. I am worthy. I am enough as I am,” I whisper.
Bzzz!
I glance at my phone again, dread creeping up as I see my ex’s name flash on the screen. He’s been calling off and on for the past hour, which can only mean one thing—he’s drunk.
“I am not your booty call,” I hiss under my breath, careful not to wake our son, Michael.
I return to the mirror to recite my affirmations. Since I’ve started affirming consistently, I feel stronger, and it’s been easier to say no to Peter. But he has such a strong hold on me. The sex with that asshole is just so fucking good. It’s the best I’ve ever had.
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“No.” I close my eyes, trying to reconnect to my power and ignore the heat rising inside me at the thought of him.
“I am stronger than this,” I say with conviction, willing the fire to cool.
Beep!
The sound of the intercom startles me. I pass Michael’s room, praying he’s still asleep. Thankfully, the soft hum of his white noise machine keeps him knocked out. I’ve used it since he was a baby to drown out the city noises.
Beep!
I rush to the kitchen intercom and press the button.
“Reina…babe…please…I have to see you…”
I let go of the button and close my eyes. This is what Peter does. He cheats and disappears to entertain his Ho of the Month, then shows up drunk when he’s had his fun. Promises to change, and we end up back in the same shitty cycle.
“I am chosen. I am worthy. I am enough as I am,” I repeat to myself.
Louder this time. “I am chosen. I am worthy. I am enough as I am!”
And then I scream it—fueled by the fury of a thousand scorned women.
“Mom?!”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, papi! Go back to bed!”
Beep!
“Shit. This pendejo isn’t going to stop!”
I pick up my phone and text him, I’m coming down, before slipping into my white Reebok Classics. I grab my keys from the counter, tiptoe to the door, and lock it quietly behind me. As I turn the corner toward the stairs, my double D’s slam into a wall of muscle.
“Ay!” I yelp.
“Ay Dios! Reina, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!”
Domingo. Six feet tall, all muscle, and those deep chocolate eyes full of concern.
“It’s… okay…” I pant, cupping my breasts. They throb from the impact. I hear him grunting every evening after five, the weights he drops rattling our shared wall.
“Let me get you some ice,” he says, placing a hand on my waist to guide me toward his apartment.
“No…” I wince. “It’s fine. I have to deal with Peter.”
“Peter,” he repeats, his voice filled with disgust. “You deserve better.”
He closes the door behind us and steps closer. My back presses against it. He gazes into my hazel eyes, inches away, his rough mechanic’s fingertips tracing my cheek and lips.
“Mereces que te traten como una reina…”
He presses his chest gently against mine, careful not to hurt me further.
“I’ve always seen tu belleza…” he whispers, brushing his lips lightly against mine.
My skin warms at his touch. It’s been so long since a man has called me beautiful and treated me with tenderness. Even though I don’t see Domingo that way, it feels good to be seen—to be chosen—even if just for a moment.
“Domingo, I…”
The words stick in my throat. I don’t want this feeling to end, even though I don’t want him. My mind drifts back to Peter waiting downstairs. I want him to make me feel this way.
I am chosen. I am worthy. I am enough just as I am, I repeat silently.
Domingo stands before me, eyes heavy with desire. His gaze devours every inch of me—sagging cheeks, wrinkles, love handles, grays, and all. I feel the fire return. A fire to be loved and wanted for exactly who I am.
I throw my arms around his neck, pull him in, and part my lips to let him in. Our hips grind together, and Domingo moans into my mouth, kissing me deeper.
The thing is I’ve tried to love myself before. I’ve gone to santeras for cleansings to unblock stagnant energy and to heal generational curses. I’ve gone to a Reiki master to align my chakras. I light my velitas every night, praying to Jesus to rid me of my insecurities so I can stand in front of a mirror and fucking love what I see inside and out.
