“Taste,” she said.
Kiana leaned in slowly, parting her lips. She sucked at the gumbo in the spoon and swallowed. Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God,” she said, a slow, sweet heat teasing her taste buds. Celery, bell peppers, okra, and onions asserted themselves against the full flavors of fresh shrimp, savory chicken, and spicy sausage. She licked her lips. “That’s delicious!”
Genevieve smiled and returned to the stove. She went about the kitchen grabbing bowls and spoons. She gestured toward the futon in the front room. “We’ll eat in there,” she said.
Kiana turned and noticed the two placemats on the table in front of the futon. She took the bottle and her wine glass over to the table and settled on the futon. Genevieve placed the bowl of bread on the table then returned with a steaming serving of gumbo for Kiana, who waited until Genevieve returned with her own bowl before leaning in to take a piece of bread.
They ate in an awkward silence at first. Kiana’s mind raced in circles. The text and voice mail messages from Michelle, the things she wanted to say, what she planned to do. She looked at Genevieve and smiled; she didn’t want to think about those things. All she wanted was to enjoy the delicious meal in front of her and the beautiful woman beside her. She drank from her wine and closed her eyes.
“Do you like it?” Genevieve asked.
“Yeah. I love it,” Kiana said. She smiled. She returned her wine to the table and slurped another mouthful of gumbo.
“It’s my nana’s recipe. She used to make it every week. She’d usually start it Friday night. I’d help her chop up the vegetables, peel and devein the shrimp, mix the roux. She’d sing to me and—”
“So why don’t you drink?” Kiana interrupted as she refilled her glass. She had been drinking steadily since she sat down, taking a sip or two between bites of food.
Genevieve cleared her throat. “I used to. I used to drink quite a bit. I had a tough time when my nana passed. She raised me. I never knew my father or my mother. Her family was small, too. Her two younger brothers passed on before her.”
Kiana wanted to say something, something comforting and certain. She drank instead, knowing that her words always came out too casual or too careless.
Genevieve continued. “Sometimes it all seems very sad, then other times it seems like she was destined to survive all that dark family history, like she was meant to be a light for me.” She shifted in her seat. “Anyway, she was all I had, and when I lost her, I came apart.”
Kiana took another drink of her wine. She held the tart liquid in her mouth for a moment before she swallowed.
Genevieve shook her head. “I felt guilty enough leaving her to go to college. Then, when Katrina hit and I hadn’t lost her, I guess I relaxed a little. I felt like maybe she was right.”
“Right about what?” Kiana said, leaning in.
“Nana used to say that she was going to live forever,” Genevieve said with sigh. Her mouth curved into a crooked grin. “She said that I was her life’s work. That her job was to see me healthy and happy, loving and being loved. She would kiss me here, here, and here”—Genevieve tapped her each side of her face and her forehead as she spoke—“then say ‘no work begun in life shall stop for death.’”
“I saw that on a grave today,” Kiana said.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah,” Kiana said. She took a deep breath and drank from her wine glass. She put the glass down and shivered slightly.
“What’s wrong?” Genevieve looked into Kiana’s eyes with concern.
“Nothing,” Kiana said, looking away. The soulful light in Genevieve’s eyes invited Kiana to come closer, called her in from the cold darkness of her own painful memories in such an easy, obvious way that it caught her off guard. It was too much. “It’s just…I keep trying to get comfortable with you. And I can’t. You make me think about things I don’t want to think about. Things that I push away, things that I…”
“Try to drown with drinks,” Genevieve said.
Kiana turned to her with a frown. “That kind of shit right there. That’s…” She grabbed her drink from the table, the wine sloshing around the bowl of the glass. She drank, tilting her head back. She refilled her glass, emptying the bottle.
“I’m sorry, Kiana,” Genevieve said. “It’s just that there’s something about you that I really like, and I know we just met, but…”
“You don’t even fucking know me,” Kiana said. She held the wine glass, rolling the wine around, watching the legs drip down and the red wine swirl. She drank. She looked at Genevieve out of the corner of her eye, unable to resist watching her as she furrowed her brows in thought and concern. Kiana wanted to make a move, a kiss or a touch, something to move from the emotional to the physical, but she felt stuck. She needed something easy, something like a balm for the stinging mess that was her insides, but being around Genevieve challenged her to go deeper than topical relief; she felt like Genevieve was offering her a healing. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to be healed, didn’t even know if it would work.
“You don’t know me, Genevieve,” she repeated, hating that she was even thinking so deeply about it. Kiana stared at the blood red wine in her glass.
“I’m trying to get to know you,” Genevieve said. “But, baby, you making that shit hard.” She leaned back from her food, turning to face Kiana. She folded one of her legs under the other and rested her arm across the back of the futon. “Tell me something,” she said. “Tell me something about you. Something that matters.”
Kiana cut her eyes at Genevieve, sizing her up. Fuck it, she said to herself. She drank from her glass, nearly draining it. She set it on the table then leaned back, matching Genevieve’s position, but resting her hands in her lap.
“In the cemetery today, I thought about this necklace my sister gave me. It was my mother’s. I hadn’t thought about it in years. Shit, I haven’t thought about her in years. On the bike, I had a flashback, a real memory. I don’t get them often. Real memories.” Kiana swallowed hard and stared down at her hands. “My mother died when I was five.”
“I’m so sorry,” Genevieve said. She crinkled her eyebrows, her lips a straight line.
“I have exactly two memories of her, neither of them involve her face. I never see her face,” Kiana said. She closed her eyes and saw only her mother’s back. The slopes of shoulders, the curls of hair at the nape of her neck, the alert, protective way she moved her head from side to side as she pedaled around the neighborhood, her baby daughter in tow. Kiana squeezed her eyes tighter, remembering the wrinkles of loose skin at her mother’s elbow, the jutting sharpness of her shoulder blades, and the flop of her small, bare feet as she jerked and shook on the living room floor. Kiana opened her eyes. “I can only see her from behind. Her lying on the floor. My sister shoving me away, pushing me away.” Kiana’s voice caught, her eyes filling with tears and bottom lip trembling. She hated crying. She wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat, fighting it.
Genevieve placed a hand on Kiana’s thigh.
“It’s just me and my sister,” Kiana said. Always a sucker for touch, she looked down at Genevieve’s hand and a wave of heat pulsed through her. She took a deep breath. “It’s always just been me and my sister.”
“Where is she? Your sister, I mean.”
“Back home. In Chicago.” Kiana shrugged. She wanted to stop talking. She needed to stop talking. If she kept on, she’d be crying. If she started crying, she’d be pathetic and sad, and she didn’t want to be pathetic and sad. She glanced at Genevieve, and she was giving her that look that she hated, a look that said, “I’m sorry for you.” She didn’t want anyone to be sorry for her. She glanced at Genevieve’s hand, searching for an escape from the depth of the moment. The long fingers and short, neat, glossy nails. Kiana thought of Genevieve’s capable hands as she prepared their food, wondered if the spicy seasonings and rich flavors clung to her fingers, if the gumbo would come alive against her tongue in the same way if sh
e sucked Genevieve’s fingertips. Kiana’s body responded to the musings, heat building between her legs and desire moistening her mouth. She reached over to the table and picked up her wine. She sipped and concentrated on the tart bite of it on her tongue, the sharp, full taste as she swallowed.
“So your sister raised you?” Genevieve asked. She returned her hand to her lap, and Kiana wondered if she were doing her mind reading tricks again.
“See,” she said. Kiana drank from the wine, looking at Genevieve over the rim of the glass. She finished the wine and put the empty glass on the table next to the empty bottle. “This is what I’m talking about. I don’t want to talk about this.” She scooted forward. Genevieve didn’t move.
“Baby, I just asked you to tell me something about you,” Genevieve said. “You chose what you told me.” She raised her eyebrow. “Maybe you do want to talk about it, but you don’t know you want to talk about it. It’s trying to get out and breathe, but you keep stuffing it back in. You can’t force it down forever.”
Kiana shook her head. “Do you always talk like that?” She felt her wine; it danced a waltz across her skin.
“Like what?” Genevieve shrugged.
“Like that,” Kiana said, inching closer. “Like a poem. You talk like you’re reciting a fucking poem.” She giggled. “You can’t force it, baby. It must breathe,” she said mocking Genevieve. She moved closer and licked her lips.
Genevieve narrowed her eyes and moved her arm from the back of the futon. She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s how I sound?”
“Yeah,” Kiana said. “I like it though. It’s sexy. And the way you say ‘baby’ like you’ve loved me my whole life. I noticed it since I been here. Everybody says it. Is that a New Orleans thing? The way you say it though…that shit is hot. Say something else.” She moved closer to Genevieve. She could smell her, the earthy scent of dirt, the faint sweetness of ripe fruit, and the savory saltiness of the gumbo.
“I’ve spoken enough for today,” Genevieve said. “You’re the one with things to say. You’re the one with feelings threatening to dead you right where you sit.”
“Mmmmm,” Kiana said. She closed all those feelings off, all that painful memory and conversation. She knew how to make herself feel better. She needed release. The wine fueled her as she leaned forward, aiming to touch her lips to Genevieve’s lips. She closed her eyes and anticipated the feeling: soft, warm, wet.
Genevieve moved back, holding her arms up and placing her hands on Kiana’s shoulders, stopping her.
Kiana opened her eyes. “Come on…” she said, her voice a gentle whisper.
“You’re drunk,” Genevieve said.
“I’m not,” Kiana countered.
Genevieve pushed herself up from the futon and began clearing the table. Kiana, rejected and angry, watched her as she moved about in the kitchen. She grabbed at the wine bottle and shook it over her glass. A single drop plopped into the bottom of her glass. She lifted the glass and drank it, the spot of wine so small, she couldn’t taste it or feel it against her tongue. Genevieve shook her head as she came back to the table for Kiana’s dish and the bowl of bread.
“You can stay here if you want,” Genevieve said. “You can take my bed. I’ll sleep out here.”
Kiana stood up. “Fuck that,” she said. “I’m going back to my hotel.”
“You shouldn’t,” Genevieve said. “You can stay here. It’s better. It’s safer.”
Kiana rolled her eyes. She walked over to the counter and picked up the wine key. She began opening the second bottle of wine.
“Come on, baby,” Genevieve said. She placed the dirty dishes on the counter. “You’ve had enough.”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” Kiana said, “You don’t know me. I know me. I know when I’ve had enough.”
Genevieve snatched the corkscrew from Kiana’s hands.
“Ouch!” she said.
“Sorry,” Genevieve said.
“No, you aren’t,” Kiana said. She turned on her heels and headed for the door. “I’m calling a cab and going back to my hotel. I don’t need this shit.” She opened the door and slammed it behind her.
The cool night air felt good against her face. Her cheeks warm with frustration and skin hot with desire, she stood in the garden, looking around at the shadows the plants made. The blossoms closed tight against the darkness and fountain trickling like a lonely, hidden stream. She was mad. She was horny. She was lonely. She took her phone from her back pocket and turned it on as she walked up the narrow path to the street. Once on the sidewalk, she called a cab. While she waited, she called Michelle, who didn’t answer. She left a message, a very short one, much like the ones Michelle left for her.
The cab arrived, and she climbed in.
“Holiday Inn on Royal, please,” she said. The driver nodded. Before he pulled off, Kiana’s phone buzzed with a text message from Michelle. Two words: I can’t.
“I changed my mind,” Kiana said. “Take me to the Quarter. The far end.”
*
The club Kiana settled on was hot. And dark. The music pulsed, shaking everything, the walls, the floor, the bar, the light fixtures. Everything rattled and buzzed, trembled and quaked. She smelled sweat, smoke, and sex. The packed dance floor contrasted the nearly empty bar. A few people huddled at the far end of the dark lounge area beside the bar, but the chairs lining the bar had long been abandoned for the hot, urgent intimacy of the dance floor. The music amplified the energy of the club all the same. Kiana could feel the bass in her chest, the snap of the snare in her teeth, the crashing keyboards behind her eyes. She sat at the bar, two empty shot glasses in front of her, and a full one on the way.
“Make it two,” she yelled over the music to the bare-chested bartender in sparkly red hot pants. He threw her a kiss over his shoulder and grabbed another shot glass from the shelf overhead. A woman in a black and white dress stepped to the bar, leaning on the back of the empty chair rather than sitting in it. Her dress, a perfect fit against her hips and thighs, barely covered the curve of her ass as she pressed herself forward on the bar.
“Have a drink with me,” Kiana said, eyeing her fishnet stockings, accented with double-stitched diamond shapes. She cleared her throat and said it again. Bold, fearless, and certain. “Have a drink with me.”
The woman turned. She smiled at Kiana over her shoulder. “Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll be drinking alone,” Kiana said. “And you know what they say about drinking alone.” She frowned and shook her head. “Very, very bad.”
The woman, her round olive-skinned face open, kind, and framed by straight black hair in an asymmetrical bob, pursed her lips. She nodded toward Kiana’s empty shot glasses. “Looks like you’ve already been drinking alone,” she said.
Kiana glanced at the glasses and scrunched her eyebrows. She turned back to the woman. “You’re right. I have been.”
“So, why don’t you keep going?” The woman shrugged. She cut her eyes; heavily lined with mascara, cat-like and smoky, they challenged Kiana to continue.
“I’m trying to change my wicked ways,” she said.
The woman looked Kiana up and down. She turned her body completely, no longer leaning on the bar, but sliding into the space between the empty chair and where Kiana sat. She licked her lips. “That’s too bad,” she said.
The bartender set the two shots down in front of them. He winked at Kiana and raised his eyebrows at the woman.
Kiana slid the shot toward the woman and lifted her own. “Cheers?”
The woman picked up the shot and raised it toward Kiana’s. She stopped. “Wait. You ordered this before you asked me if I wanted it?”
“Yeah. So?” Kiana grinned, inhaling the woman’s scent: cloves, lime, and tequila.
“That’s awfully cocky, don’t you think?” the woman said.
“No, no,” Kiana said. “Not cocky. Confident. There’s a very important difference.”
“What’
s the difference?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Kiana said. She tapped her shot against the woman’s glass then touched it to the bar.
“Now you’re being cocky,” the woman said, lifting her shot and laughing.
They slammed the shots back.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Kiana said. She lifted her hand for the bartender. “Two more, buddy,” she said.
*
The woman was lava. Molten, hot lava. She moved over Kiana’s skin slow and steady, thick and rolling, heavy, hot, and destructive. Her name unimportant, her body a volcano, Kiana’s fingers dove deep inside her, finding a fiery rage churning and roiling around her knuckles. She shook from the inside, trembling and coming apart. “I don’t even know your name,” the woman had said before Kiana kissed her in the elevator and, “I told myself I’d stop doing this,” she had whispered into Kiana’s neck as clothes loosened and fell to the floor. Her doubts and hesitations, better judgment and healthy caution, everything hard and jagged about her, everything solid and certain crumbled and splashed into the pool of fire between them as they rolled and rumbled across the bed. The woman’s liquid heat coated Kiana’s fingers, their sweat sizzling on their skin. Finally, the eruption. The rush, the spray. It caught Kiana off guard. She removed her hand and looked down at the woman. All she could see was light, the lamp, the sun, the moon, the streetlight, she didn’t know which, but it glimmered off the woman’s face, making it glowing brass, the length of her slender nose and perfection of pouty lips. She dipped down to kiss her. The woman turned her face and flipped over, situating herself on top of Kiana.
The light hid her features, a blur of movement and warmth, the woman’s mouth seemed everywhere at once. She went down; Kiana felt lips and tongue and teeth. She opened her legs in invitation, and the woman accepted. Kiana looked down at the top of the woman’s head. She couldn’t remember her name or if she’d even asked what it was. She couldn’t remember the woman’s face. She recalled only light, glowing, comforting light, and heat. Light and heat. She smiled and arched her body up, offering herself to the sun, fucking the sun.
Let the Lover Be Page 6