A young Black man singing on my subway car gave me such a pleasurable tune. I never give cash to panhandlers and subway artists, but given what I was going through; a struggle with my writer boyfriend about talents and conflicts, I was compelled to give this talented young singer my loose bills. Not only were his words soulful and familiar, the classic R&B song he belted out eased my discomforts. The lyrics praising a woman he yearned for reminded me that I am loved that way. My talented Black man hasn’t sang to me using the smooth voice of his pen, and for some reason it bothers me. It leads me to think the selfish thoughts of young Sunasia who masks any pain with superficial pleasure. I told myself I’ve grown, and I’ve made progress in doing so. I should’ve forseen at least a sliver of conflict as possible here. But upon inception, this relationship was so immediately fulfilling, I might have been mistaken. The real test is when we fight. A woman secure in her mental stability wouldn’t access her sexuality in order to distract from the issue at hand. That’s what I have to tell myself. I consider this advice a donation from above. I expect I’m approaching the point in my adulthood where I have all the cash I need.

Posted by a woman in transit.



Being broke is being alive. There is no greater indication that you are a living, breathing creature like poverty. We all need to eat and drink,




and host.

We need to use resources like electricity, water, plumbing.

We need to assert our social status by securing the newest, high-tech devices to watch,




and photograph. These things I mentioned, and the other stuff I left out, cost money.

Now I can pay for it with my dollars and coins, or my partner’s, or my parent’s. But there’s no escaping the transaction.