Who thought I was right for Mary? I didn't. The meeting began when the door opened and the loud, confusing voices of the gamblers growing stronger, paused. She stepped toward the hushed pack, parting it like the sea as if commanded by Moses, drifted past their staring eyes, and ended next to me in front of Mrs. Gomez.

On first sight, I'd accepted Mary as an innocent and wholesome girl, much like a small orphan, whose parent had shut away. After watching me for three weeks, Mrs. Gomez said hello, and offering a late housewarming cherry pie, making me think long-established custom when Mary arrived. So, my security in my new apartment was now obvious. Right?

Mary's tan skin, black wavy hair stopping to her shoulders, framing an oval face, a soft smile, snookered me. While I contemplated on how to display how socially graceful I could be, Mary turned to the ruffians, snapped, "Mind your business!" Their heads jerked straight, directing their attention to the game.

Kneeling, that bunch looked more like beggars, groveling for supper not rolling the dice for money. Right away, I recognized the suave and debonair approach to presenting myself did not qualify. I misread her. Maybe, the multi-color dress without shoulder straps threw me. Sexiness makes men restless. Whenever I got myself ill-at-ease in various surroundings, I'd exit. There were no reasons to stick around, but a cherry pie had a Herculean grip on me.

"Mary! I want you to say hello to-ah. What's your name, young fellow? Haha. Sorry, I didn't ask."

"My name is Jerry, mam. Jerry Burl."

"Go ahead, Mary, say hello to Jerry!"

To be honest, I wasn't keen on getting acquainted with Mary after what she told those ruffians.  She didn't radiate charm. When she looked at me, she flipped her head back and smiled, "WHAZUP dude? How's it kicking?"

That cornered me. I was not sure what to expect. Especially when an okay-looking half Hispanic, half Black girl, around the age of a thirty-year-old, addresses me, dude. I knew my radar for trouble worked fine most times, but after witnessing that strong vocal alignment to a herd of looters, rowdies, and roughnecks, I might not be as secure as I first planned. This was more than I can stand. I need to separate from these people.

What have I learned? This girl is not for me. There has to be a way out. I can't just go inside my apartment. It's better to wait for the next opening to leave.

So, I said, "Hi, Mary."

Mary's eyes examined me as if she was deciding on making a purchase. Then she spun and rocked her head, in recognition of something to Mrs. Gomez. I didn't know what was taking place, but I discovered later. As I remained there feeling like an exportable item that Mary could remove, Mrs. Gomez got up from her seat and went into her apartment. Since we live across the hall from each other, I assumed she left to use the restroom or something. But that didn't happen.

Mary plopped in the lounge chair, sent the gamblers away, removed the tough girl routine, and convinced me she can get dirty with the guys if needed. Eight years of active duty in the Army make women different from the ones seen every day. And while serving, she earned college hours when she wasn't working. But, after leaving the military, she returned home with problems. Both of us have something in common. We take medication for our illness. Our conversation continued into the late hours on the porch and that led to a three-year relationship.