Dreams [PRN]

chapter one

June had always embraced San Juan with a sultry hug, the kind that leaves you breathless and a little dizzy from the heat. It was on such a day, with the sun hanging high like a golden guardian, that my life took an unexpected turn. I remember the lazy hum of the ceiling fan in Rosa's small parlor, where the wallpaper clung desperately to the walls as if it too felt the oppressiveness of the tropical heat.

Rosa, with her cat-like eyes and a mind sharp as a machete, was not just the owner of the dilapidated building where I lived; she was also my madam. The makeup she wore could not conceal the hardness in her face, nor the fact that she had lived through more storms than the flaking paint on her front door suggested.

On that particular afternoon, she summoned me into her dimly lit parlor, a room smelling faintly of overripe mangoes and cigarette smoke. I sat on a faded floral couch, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying not to look as nervous as I felt.

"Today's a special day, Mayte," she began, her voice smooth, almost purring. "We have a very important guest. He's not from around here. Make sure you make a good impression."

Before I could ask any questions, the door creaked open, and a man stepped into the shadow-filled room. He was unlike the usual clientele that frequented Rosa's establishment. Upright, with a regal bearing, he wore his confidence like a cloak. His eyes, a piercing shade of dark, seemed to hold secrets deeper than the Atlantic.

"Prince, this is Mayte. She's one of our best," Rosa introduced me with a flicker of pride in her voice.

I stood up, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribcage. He looked at me, really looked—like he could see straight through to my tattered soul. It was uncomfortable, yet oddly thrilling.

"Nice to meet you," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied, his voice rich and smooth, like molasses. He extended his hand, not to shake mine, but to gently lift it to his lips in a gesture so outdated, it felt like a scene from a movie.

"Rosa tells me you're the jewel of this place. I hope we can spend some time together, get to know each other a little," he said, his gaze never wavering from mine.

Rosa's laugh, a harsh sound, broke the moment. "I'll leave you two to chat. Mayte, show our guest the hospitality he deserves."

With that, she left the room, the scent of her floral perfume lingering like a promise. Prince sat down on the couch, patting the spot next to him. I hesitated, then moved closer, the old springs groaning under our weight.

"So, Mayte, tell me about yourself. What dreams do you harbor in your heart?" Prince asked, turning to face me fully.

His question, genuine and curious, caught me off guard. No one had ever cared to ask about my dreams before—not in the way he did, as if my dreams actually mattered.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," I murmured, my accent dampened by the hush of my voice.

Prince tilted his head slightly, a soft smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Everyone has dreams, aspirations that give them hope or a reason to wake up in the morning. I'm interested in yours, Mayte. What do you wish for yourself beyond this place?" His gaze was steady, encouraging, but behind it, there was a flicker of something like sorrow—a shared understanding of confinement within life's harsh realities.

For a moment, I was silent, considering his words. My dreams had long been pushed to the dusty corners of my mind, overshadowed by the daily survival in Rosa's dimly lit world. But here was this stranger, the Prince, asking me to retrieve those forgotten desires and give them voice.