Angel – named by her Mykonos-born mother in a blend of naïve optimism and a centuries-old family naming tradition – stepped into the spotlight on The Fillmore Miami Beach stage in skin-tight black latex with decorative steel buckles and zippers, short legs bare and muscular, hair elaborately curated in multi-colored braids, looking more like a WWE Superstar than a Poetry Slam Champion ready to defend her Haiku Improv title. Her fans in the sweating crowd roared as if a rock idol had graced them with her presence, waving red roses (her victory flower). She used mindful visualization techniques from her Zen master to summon the image of herself triumphant, engulfed by red petals, as she knew she would be at the end of the evening.

Her challenger Chiquita – named by her Andalusian father, who said he chose the name out of love for his sweet “little girl” but also just craved bananas – strode on next, a towering giraffe from her yellow cowboy boots to the halo of blond curls that set off her glowing dark skin. Admirers rose to their feet hooting, waving yellow roses, plus a few bunches of bananas which she prayed they would not throw when she beat the pants off that self-important musclebound little poetry pretender.

Angel, the defending champion, chose heads in the coin toss; when she won she declared, like a football captain, “I opt to receive.”

The judge (in a black robe suitable for the Supreme Court, plus red patent leather pumps and a red satin turban) pulled a card at random from the fishbowl of audience suggestions and declared: “The topic for today’s Haiku Improv Poetry Slam Final is…Heartbreak.”

Chiquita stepped to the mic, quieted the crowd, took a deep breath, pointed at her opponent and proclaimed, (without counting syllables on her fingers):

Crazy Angel bitch
Breaks my heart every morning
When she leaves my bed.

Fans gasped, then recovered, and cheered lustily for the hot banana girl, until the defending champion took the mic, declaring to her challenger:

You know I can’t help
Love your smooth peel and sweet heart
So please don’t break mine.

Roses flew, both yellow and red; a few bananas went “splat” on the stage. The Judge, stomping their red patent pumps in appreciation, declared Angel and Chiquita the first ever co-champions of the Miami Beach Haiku Improv Poetry Slam.

It was a warm Saturday night in early May, four days after Layla Mickey Foxx had arrived in Miami. She was almost five months past her thirty-fifth birthday, and she felt a fresh kind of freedom as she applauded and whooped with the crowd.

That morning she’d gone down to the coffee shop on the first floor of her new apartment building for the fourth day in a row. She felt like a regular. The barista already knew her name and her order: café latte and peanut butter cookie for Mickey, she declaimed. While waiting for her drink Layla Mickey surveyed the room. She liked being Mickey in Miami.

It was Saturday; she could see the difference from the weekday crowd. More hungover couples. Solo readers on their laptops sipping fancy coffees slowly, flicking pages gently, unrushed. A pair of fascinating looking women sat together at a four-top. One, tall as a basketball star, had an elegant, shaved head; the other was compact and powerful looking. Mickey collected her drink and approached.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Please do,” said the short one. “I’m Warrior Two, and this is The Queen.”

Layla Mickey settled her drink and cookie on the table.

“Layla Mickey Foxx,” she said, “with a double X.” She put out her hand and they shook. “Just got into town this week.”

“Interesting name,” said The Queen.

“My mother chose Layla because she loved Clapton. My dad chose Mickey because he loved Mickey Mantle. I chose Foxx because I hated being teased when my last name was Fuchs.” She paused, decided. “Call me Mickey. Did you know Mantle still holds records for both the most home runs and the most strikeouts in the World Series?” She felt her father’s positive energy rushing through her. He had loved baseball statistics.

“Love those Yankees,” said The Queen. “You’re visiting from New York?”

“I’ve moved here,” said Mickey. “I’m renting upstairs” she pointed straight up, “got in Tuesday. My stuff got stuck somewhere in the middle of the state for an extra day, but I’m all settled in now.”

“Made you anxious, right?” asked the Queen. “All your stuff missing somewhere in bumfuck Florida?

“Sure did. Do you know how many people get scammed by movers? I brought a few things in the car, mainly business records, but all my clothes and furniture were in that truck.”

“What business are you in?” asked Warrior Two.

“Oh, it’s pretty boring,” Mickey said. “Financial.”

Warrior Two tilted her head to the side, curious. “You have business here?” she pursued.

“I hope so. I’ve inherited my family business, but I want to take it in a different direction. Thought I had a lead on a client here working on affordable housing, but it turned out his condo project wasn’t on the level.” She decided not to share that he was the Ponzi schemer pictured on the front page of Wednesday’s local section.

“Ah, real estate,” said Warrior Two. “Miami’s number one industry.” She made air quotes around the word industry. “Rarely on the level.”

“I’m just on the financing side,” said Mickey.

“It’s a very destructive business,” Warrior Two persisted, “for people who actually live here.” Her eyebrows frowned. “Billionaires snatching up neighborhoods and dropping overpriced new condos everywhere, pushing ordinary people out. The properties never fill up, except now investors are buying them for Airbnb rental. Ruins the building but the developers are long gone by then.”

“Yes, same thing in New York. It’s terrible.” She saw no reason to mention her late mother’s involvement in those dreadful projects. “I’m not committed to real estate,” Mickey said. ”I’m in private lending, open to all kinds of deals.”

“You’re a loan shark?” asked Warrior Two.

“Not a shark. We help people who can’t get other financing. It’s 100% legit.” She was the only one left – the last survivor in her family. “Not ‘we’ anymore,” she corrected herself. “It’s just me now.”

“You miss your family, don’t you,” said the Queen.

She did. She still longed for one more adventure with her father Jake, a softhearted bookie who’d been killed on their doorstep by a horseplayer who owed him money when she was ten. She still missed quarrelling with her mother Alex who, heartbroken, had pivoted the business to coldblooded real estate lending and died of leukemia (probably caused by bitterness) just one month before. She still treasured the random moments when her magical aunt Marjorie, dead fifteen years, showed up as an opinionated hovering purple cloud.

Mickey sipped her latte and broke off a piece of her peanut butter cookie. It smelled like magic, and she heard Marjorie’s voice, like a mantra: Try not to be afraid of things that intrigue you.

“Yes,” Mickey told the Queen, “I miss them desperately. But I had to turn the page, start my next life. That’s why I moved to Miami.”

Warrior Two pressed on. “Loans to those who can’t get other financing – like women and people of color?”

“There are lots of people who can’t get traditional loans,” Mickey replied, “not just victims of the racist patriarchy.” She liked exercising her debating muscles with Warrior Two and leaning into her Mickey personality – not afraid to swing at a pitch. A few progressive buzz words couldn’t hurt to establish her bona fides.

Up near the ceiling, Marjorie sniggered, nearly invisible lavender vapor enjoying the show. Warrior Two looked up, distracted, and then returned her attention to the conversation. In fact, most of Alex’s borrowers had been bigots who foolishly believed they’d beat her in negotiations because she was a woman. Out-thinking misogynists to maximize profit was a worthy endeavor – women taking their share – but it certainly wasn’t social action.

“I’m looking for a different kind of client,” Mickey said, and she meant it. She’d battled against Alex’s lending to developers who priced ordinary people out of their neighborhoods, but she’d never won the argument. She pulled her shoulders back and down, sat up straight and declared, “This business is under new management and ready for change.”

“We can introduce you to some people,” said The Queen “who might have interesting projects.” She reached for Mickey’s phone. “May I give you our contact info?” Not waiting for permission, she tapped the screen gently with a long, tapered index finger. Her nails were short and buffed, and on her index finger she wore a ring with a black iridescent stone that reminded Mickey of volcanoes she’d seen in Hawaii.

“There you go, Layla Mickey Foxx,” said the Queen, turning the phone back. “And if you don’t have plans this evening, there’s a fabulous event at the Fillmore where you can start to meet some new friends.”

The Miami Beach Haiku Improv Poetry Slam was indeed fabulous and the champions, Angel and Chiquita, were lofted out the door by scantily dressed friends and fans. Warrior Two appeared at Mickey’s side. “Rooftop afterparty at a ridiculously hip restaurant,” she said, “just follow the crowd.”

It was a beautiful evening, and Mickey found herself part of a parade. Two dozen celebrants in festive costumes and strappy shoes pranced along waving flags and trailing balloons. They strutted through a palm-studded park, stopped honking traffic to cross a busy street, and reached a pedestrian-safe road where they spread out and kept dancing along to the music of a trumpet and a saxophone and a snare drum. A clave joined the rhythm section and added a mambo beat. It felt like a second line in New Orleans, heavy on the Latin influence. Mickey got into the groove with the others, in her best black jeans, silver threaded tank and red Chuck Taylors. She shrugged off her white tuxedo jacket and hung it by its little chain on her index finger over her left shoulder. They danced their way up the road and into an elevator to a rooftop bar.

Layla Mickey Foxx stepped out of the elevator and felt as far from Manhattan as she could imagine. There was a reflecting pool, several tiki huts, at least three bars, and lush growth all around. She could see the lights of the Miami skyline in the distance. The place was full of noisy young people showing as much tanned, laser smooth skin as possible: women in tight spangly dresses displaying cleavage and legs, men with patterned shirts open to hairless chests. Mickey was happy with her outfit – classic, elegant, and comfortable, no pretense to tropical. New York’s in the house, she thought, shrugging back into her jacket.

Warrior Two and The Queen, who had taken off her shoes yet seemed even taller in her bare feet, waved her over to a corner bar. The cocktail menu featured ingredients like peanut butter tequila, ceremonial matcha, and tobacco bitters. The glasses came with chiseled round ice cubes and herbs scattered around their rims.

When in Rome? she thought briefly. She did love peanut butter but couldn’t quite imagine it in tequila. She chose a drink she didn’t have to wonder about.

“A Belvedere martini,” she said to the bartender, “straight up, very dirty, with three olives please.”

The martini was perfect, icy and crisp and salty, the chilled glass filmed with condensation. She wiped her hands on the black bandanna she always carried. The Queen grinned. “You’re not driving, are you?” she said. She led Mickey past a shallow pool that didn’t seem meant for swimming. “We’re playing Two Truths and a Lie. It’s a great way for you to get to know people.”

The game had begun. Warrior Two pulled a chair into the circle for Mickey, next to her own. She was compact and powerful in forest green shorts and tank that showed off the muscles in her arms and legs. The Queen took her seat at the opposite side.

“I’m Angel,” said the co-champion. Up close she was stunning, with elaborately curated hair and almost nothing else on. “My Greek mother named me and I like the irony.” Others chuckled. “Two truths and a lie: I’m the Miami Beach Haiku Improv Poetry Slam champion, I was born in a windmill on Mykonos, and I live on top of a mountain in downtown Miami.”

An African woman in a kente cloth headwrap laughed. “Too easy,” she said. “There are no mountains in downtown Miami. That’s your lie.”

Angel grinned. “The tallest building in Miami is a mountain to a girl born in a windmill on Mykonos, and that’s where I live,” she said. “To a poet, a metaphor is no lie.”

Next to Angel, the towering figure with blond curls took her hand. “We’re co-champions of the Miami Beach Haiku Improv Poetry Slam, baby,” she said, “so that’s the lie. My turn. I’m Chiquita, because my dad loved bananas not because I’m a little girl. Two truths and a lie: I love poetry, I love competition, and I’m not looking for a better way to earn a living.”

A petite woman with shaggy wolf-cut hair shook her head madly, hair flapping. “Not true,” she said, “that’s a lie. Chiquita is always looking for new ways to earn a living. Look at her social media – she’ll try almost anything. She tried to get me into a pyramid scheme selling creepy skin products made from bee venom, right?”

Chiquita hid her laugh behind a well-manicured hand. “I thought it was a real opportunity,” she said. “My problem is I’m too trusting.”

“It’s okay, baby,” said Angel, patting Chiquita’s thigh. “You’re a little naïve, but we still love you.”

Heads bobbed around the circle.

The game continued, with women telling their own lies and truths, voicing their dreams and fears. Maria wanted to buy a racehorse that was performing well in the Royal Palm Meet but she didn’t have the cash; Jeanette was passionate about mentoring women entrepreneurs, but hadn’t found the secret sauce to differentiate herself; Tina was an investigative reporter looking for a scoop; Eileen was running for mayor. Grace had bought a run-down motel and was trying to bring it up to code to open a communal residence for fiction writers. Her lie was that she had enough money to finish the renovation.

“My turn,” said the wolf-haired one. “I’m Stella. Two truths and a lie: I’m from Boston, I’ve been divorced three times and widowed twice, and I’m looking for a better way to earn a living.” She looked around. Who would guess the lie?

Silence. Mickey could hear everyone breathing. An enormous bird crossed the sky,  wings beating audibly.

A Latina at Mickey’s right took a chance. “You’re too young to have been married five times. That’s the lie.”

Stella smiled and shook her head. “Nope,” she said, “it takes practice and planning, but it’s true.”

Someone at the other side of the circle tried. “She’s not from Boston. Her accent’s wrong. They don’t say ‘divorced,’ they say ‘di-vawst.’”

Stella pulled out her driver’s license. “Nope, Ah’m from Baw-stin,” she said, accent broad as Matt Damon’s in Good Will Hunting. “I just polished my speaking so I could be from anywhere.”

“You’re not looking for another way to earn a living,” Mickey said. She’d known that was the lie from the start.

“Correct, my love,” said Stella. “Why change something that’s successful? It’s not very hard work, and most of the time it’s fun. And it pays enough that I can do whatever I want! Your turn, baby.”

No fear, thought Mickey. How much should she share?

“Hi, everyone. My name is Layla Mickey Foxx – you can call me Mickey. Two truths and a lie…” She inhaled and exhaled. One,” she said, counting one on her left pinkie finger, “I just moved here from New York. Two,” her left ring finger, “I have a closet full of shoe boxes filled with cash, and three,” touching her middle finger, “I’m ready to restart my family’s private lending business in Miami.”

She sat back.

“No one keeps cash in shoeboxes,” said the woman on her left, “that’s the lie. And if it’s not, then we need to talk about your new bank account.” She put a business card on the arm of Mickey’s chair. Her name was Rita, and she was a VP at a bank with a shoreline in the logo.

“Nope, that’s not a lie,” said Mickey. “My closet is definitely full of cash. It’s a family tradition.” She picked up the card and tucked it into her inside jacket pocket. “We should talk, you’re right about that.”

Others jumped in. They knew she was from New York, so her statement about being ready to restart the business was clearly a lie.

“Well, it’s maybe a half a lie,” she said. “I know what I should do, but I need more connections to do it. It’s all about who you know.”

A lavender cloud appeared above the circle. It was her aunt Marjorie, calling her bluff. Half a lie? she hissed. You haven’t got a clue. Mickey glanced around the circle. She could tell that only her hosts, Warrior Two and The Queen, saw and heard Marjorie.

Warrior Two touched her shoulder. “Look around you,” she said. “Your new banker, potential projects you can feel good about, the next mayor of Miami – all right here. Any other connection you need is less than six degrees away.”

Others nodded agreement. “We’ve got you, Mickey,” said Jeannette.

“Okay, my turn,” said Warrior Two, “and then the Queen wraps it up. Two truths and a lie: I’m from the Bronx, I’ve been travelling on adventures with the Queen for about a decade, and I can bench more than anyone else in this circle.”

“Hah!” the Queen snorted. “The Bronx? You can’t even say it with the right accent.”

“Yep, that’s the lie,” Warrior Two agreed. “Your turn.” Mickey noticed that no one challenged the bench press claim.

“Two truths and a lie,” declared the Queen, tone majestic. “One: I’m from the most beautiful place on earth, which I wrapped in a cloak of invisibility before I left so it doesn’t get ruined by tourists. Two: I left the King in charge so we could go on adventures. Three: I never miss him at all.”

Her voice trailed off on the last phrase, and Mickey saw her eyes glisten. Marjorie shivered overhead; since her death she had been very sensitive to others’ emotions.

“You’re pretty smart, but no one can make a cloak of invisibility,” said Tina, the reporter. “That’s the lie.”

“Ever heard of search engine optimization?” said the Queen.

“Of course,” said Tina, “it’s how you get everyone to find you on the internet.”

“Exactly. This is the opposite – we get everyone NOT to find us. Takes an army of agents patrolling constantly to make sure the defense stays strong, but it works. That’s not the lie.”

Warrior Two crossed the circle and hugged the Queen. “The last part’s a lie,” she said. “Looks like it’s time for one of your secret visits to the King.”

The Queen brightened and stood up. “Enough games,” she said. “Let’s celebrate our champs. Who has a toast?”

Mickey, trying not to be scared of things that intrigued her, wanted to take her place in this circle of friends. She stood and raised her glass. “I have a toast for Angel and Chiquita,” she said. Glasses rose, chatter silenced. Counting syllables on her fingers, Mickey declared:

Here’s to our co-champs,

whose love story in Haiku

is so hot and sweet.