I have business to conduct in the still-sketchy part of my neighborhood. My business is legitimate, but there is plenty of other business being conducted, on street corners, snugged up against protected stoops, groups of men working in loose confederations that are opaque to me.

I am blasting music through my head, music that makes me walk with a luxurious slow hip roll, it is warm and gorgeous out, heading into evening. Ahead of me is a bunch of local "businessmen" hanging out and one of them has headphones on too, his head bobbing in the same time as my stride. As I approach he turns to me with a grin, a come on, gesturing for me to dance with him, pelvis aggressively forward.

I smile a little, duck my head, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, pretend to be shy. But if it were not a seven-on-one situation, weapons surely being held in waistbands and front pockets, and dusk coming on fast, I might accept his invitation. I might slide my fingers through the belt loops of his baggy jeans, draw him to me, pull his leg between my thighs and surprise the hell out of him for a couple of bars, in silence, each of us in our own musical world, our faces close and grinning in concord.

After all, today I am wearing a red dress.