Kiana wasn’t in the mood for wine. Sitting down with Michelle demanded something stronger, but she lifted the glass anyway and sipped the cool, faintly sweet wine.
“You like?” Michelle asked. She smiled. Her full lips were glossed and tinted the soft pink of litchis.
Kiana nodded. She drank from her glass once more. “It’s good. Sweet, but only at first.” She sipped again, holding the wine in her mouth, rolling it over her tongue before swallowing. “Then sharp and tart.”
Michelle smirked. She picked up her glass. “I’m glad you agreed to come.”
“Me, too. So far.” Kiana drank more wine before setting her glass down slowly. She ran a hand over her afro and looked around the bar.
“You need a haircut,” Michelle said. She sipped her wine. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen it this long. This unruly.” She put her wine on the table and reached across the small table to touch Kiana’s hair.
Kiana pulled back. “Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.” She cleared her throat. She hadn’t thought much about her hair—the curls and kinks locking and frizzing with a mind of their own.
“It looks good though. Wild. Free,” Michelle said.
Kiana didn’t respond. She stared down at her glass and turned it slowly by the stem.
Michelle sighed and poured Kiana and herself more wine. “I thought this would be easier,” she said. She took a large gulp of wine. “Key, I didn’t like how our talk ended at the café. I didn’t want to dredge all that old shit up, you know? I wanted us to…catch up…I wanted us to just move forward.”
Kiana rolled her eyes. She wished Michelle would stop calling her “Key,” but liked it at the same time. She picked up her glass and drank. “I don’t know why you thought we’d just pick up like everything was fine.”
“I know,” Michelle said. “I was being naïve. I owe you an explanation.”
“Yes,” Kiana said. She nodded and sipped her wine. “You do. What happened? Why did you just leave me like that?”
Michelle looked down at the table. She ran her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass. Kiana watched her hands. She’d always loved her hands. Long, elegant fingers. Perfectly shaped, neatly trimmed nails. Her nails were longer than Kiana remembered and painted a pale, innocent pink.
“That last night,” Michelle began, “we came stumbling home from the bar. Do you remember?” She met Kiana’s eyes.
“Yes,” Kiana lied. She didn’t remember coming home from the bar. She didn’t remember much about the night except that Michelle told her about visiting friends in New Orleans. “They’re old friends. They just moved to New Orleans and want something familiar. I do, too,” Michelle had said, nursing a Malibu and pineapple juice at their neighborhood bar.
“When we got upstairs, we argued,” Michelle said. “It was stupid. You wanted to play music and dance. I was tired and wanted to sleep. I tried to take the stereo remote from you and we…we fought over it.”
Kiana bit at the inside of her jaw. She tried to remember. Only flashes revealed themselves. The thump of 808’s. Kelis over bass and snare beats. Light pouring in from the kitchen, making a stage of the front room. A floor lamp toppling to the carpet. The orange backlight on the stereo. The cigarette burn in the carpet like a beauty mark. More like a mole. A palm to the face. Michelle’s palm. Pushing and slapping, both at once.
“I hadn’t ever seen that side of you, Key. Never saw you so angry. So…”
“Hurt,” Kiana said. “I was hurt.” She remembered the weeks leading up to Michelle’s decision to leave. Michelle had been distant, less affectionate, shrugging her way through intimate moments. When Kiana kissed her, Michelle no longer closed her eyes. Kiana never considered that there was only one way to know that.
“Things between us weren’t right,” Kiana said. “I didn’t know how to handle it.”
Michelle chuckled. “Neither one of us did,” she said. She ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass. “I was going to come back,” she said. “Once I got down here, I met up with my friends. We had fun. It was nice. I missed you at first.”
“At first,” Kiana repeated. She drank her wine, nearly draining the glass.
“I wanted to tell you I missed you those few times we talked,” Michelle said. “But I wanted you to say it first. I wanted you to tell me to come home. That things could be different.”
Kiana laughed. “You’re a mess, you know that?” She looked around the bar, unable to meet Michelle’s eyes. She threw back the last of her wine. “You watch too many movies, Michelle.” She reached for the bottle and filled her glass. She poured the last of the wine into Michelle’s half-full glass.
“Well, I was confused. I wanted…” Michelle picked up her glass. “I wanted things to be different, but I didn’t know what that meant. Thinking about it made me crazy. Being away from you was scary at first. As fucked up as you were, I knew I had your love. I never doubted that. But I didn’t know what I wanted. I couldn’t focus on me while focusing on us. I needed a break. Then I wanted direction. I thought that if you said to me, ‘Come home. Let’s do this thing this way and have these things,’ that we could do something special. I thought that if you had a real plan, then we could be extraordinary. But you didn’t have a plan. You didn’t have anything.”
Kiana gulped down her wine and looked over at the bartender. The woman met her eyes and nodded; her beehive hair didn’t move.
“A plan?” Kiana shook her head. “The plan was to be together.”
“That’s not a plan,” Michelle said.
As much as Kiana hated to admit it, Michelle was right. She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t spend too much time thinking about the future; she had a hard enough time just thinking about getting through the day. She sighed. The server appeared at the table.
“What can I get you? Another bottle?” The server, hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes dark as charcoal, leaned forward at the waist and smiled.
“Yes,” Michelle said before Kiana could answer. “And bring her a shot of Maker’s.”
“Very well,” the server said.
“Make it a double,” Kiana said as the slight man turned and headed toward the bar.
“Certainly,” he said with a wink.
“Michelle,” Kiana said. She placed her hands flat on the table and drummed her fingers. “None of this shit makes sense to me.” She shrugged. “We could have talked about it. Just like we’re doing now. Listening to the whole thing, it all sounds stupid and petty. Dramatic and…” She stopped and blew out a breath.
“I didn’t know how to talk about it,” Michelle said.
“So what does this mean?” Kiana said. She tried to control her tone, temper the hope and frustration caught in the back of her throat.
“I don’t know,” Michelle said. “I guess it means I’m sorry.” She reached across the table slowly, looking into Kiana’s eyes. She placed her hands on top of Kiana’s. Kiana didn’t move.
“Playing it back, it is silly. It’s all very dumb.” Michelle rubbed the tops of Kiana’s hands, scratching her nails down her fingers then tracing her knuckles with her fingertips. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not talking to you about what I felt. What I wanted.”
Kiana’s stomach tingled. Her mouth watered. She moistened her lips with her tongue. She wanted to move her hands, but couldn’t. She swallowed and watched Michelle’s fingers move over her knuckles, reaching up toward her wrists. Michelle’s hands felt nice. Her touch was always a comfort. She shook her head against memory, blurring recollections of touch, care, and hurt. The server returned with another bottle of wine and Kiana’s double shot. Kiana yanked her hands away as he set the drink and bottle down. She and Michelle leaned back in their chairs as he uncorked the wine and refilled Michelle’s glass. He left the bottle on the table and nodded before walking away.
Michelle held up her glass and smiled. Kiana lifted her drink.
“I feel better,” Michelle said. “Do you?”
“Sure,” Kiana said, forcing a smile.
Michelle grinned and raised her wine. “Let’s just leave it all in the past, Key.”
“To moving on,” Kiana said. She tipped her drink in Michelle’s direction.
“Cheers,” Michelle said. She sipped her wine.
Kiana killed her double shot and slammed the glass on the table.
“Well, damn!” Michelle said with a laugh.
Kiana laughed, too. She raised her hand in the direction of the bartender, who smiled and nodded once again.
*
The lounge was nearly empty, and the music switched from energetic big band to smooth jazz, the slow whining of a saxophone against the soft synthetic rhythm of a drum machine and tinkling keyboard. Michelle poured the last of her wine, draining the second bottle, into her glass. Kiana stared down at her fourth double shot of Maker’s. Her eyelids heavy, her body loose, she leaned over the table, resting her chin on her fists, practically holding up her head.
“I think I always knew,” Kiana said. She blinked slowly and twisted her lips. “I always fucking knew you would leave me for some man.”
“Now wait a minute,” Michelle said, her voice soft and slurred. “I don’t appreciate that shit, Key.” She shook her head and wagged her finger at Kiana.
“Bisexuals,” Kiana said, “Always leave for a man at the end of it all. You’re all scared. Can’t hang. It’s okay, buddy. I get it. Being a lesbian is hard fucking work.”
Michelle blew air through her lips. “Woe is me,” she said. She took a big swallow of wine. “Poor little rich girl. Beautiful women falling all over me. Live-in pussy at the drop of a dime. Fucking and fighting just to fuck again. Yeah, lesbians have it so hard.” She slapped at Kiana’s arms then drank more wine.
“Whatever. It ain’t like that,” Kiana said. She sipped her whiskey and tried to focus her eyes. “It’s the people. Society. People hate us. They judge us. Want to fix us. I don’t need to be fixed. I’m not fucking broken, bitch!” She said the last with venom, spit flying as she continued. “Fuck it. I don’t care. Leave. Avoid the judgment of the masses. Hide in your straight safety!”
“I’ve been judged, too!” Michelle said. She slapped her hand on the table. The bartender looked in their direction then shook her head.
Kiana put a finger over her mouth. “Quiet down,” she whispered against her wet lips. “We’re scaring the white people.”
Michelle and Kiana burst into laughter. Michelle covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she giggled into her palm. Kiana chuckled into her fist.
Michelle caught her breath then grabbed her glass to drink the last of her wine. She looked at Kiana. “You know me, Key,” she said. Her voice low and serious, she continued, “You know I never gave a fuck about what people thought of me.”
She scooted her chair around the side of the table. Clumsy, but quick, she stopped Kiana from taking another sip of her drink. She took the glass out of Kiana’s hands and placed it on the table.
Kiana stared at her. She blinked and furrowed her eyebrows. She whispered, “What do you want from me?”
Michelle leaned in, her lips hovering close to Kiana’s. Her breath was hot. Woodsy and fruity at the same time, both heavy and light at once. Kiana could taste it. Could taste her. She closed her eyes, remembering. Michelle moved forward, pressing her lips against Kiana’s mouth. The heat of the kiss was familiar, the high of it brand new. Michelle’s tongue pushed through the forbidden darkness, sparked the blazing duplicity of it. The ache of time passed and love remembered burst between them. Kiana accepted it all, ready and willing to be burned by the fire of it all. She sucked at Michelle’s tongue, and Michelle pulled back with a gasp. She put her hands to her mouth and pushed herself back, her chair screeching against the marble floor.
“I’m sorry,” Michelle said. She stood, still holding her fingers to her mouth.
“You don’t have to be,” Kiana said. She swallowed hard and looked up at Michelle, who trembled before her, eyes wide with surprise and fear. Kiana reached out to her, but she took a step back.
“That was a mistake,” Michelle whispered. Her voice was muffled behind her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to do that. That wasn’t right.” She shook her head.
“But it was,” Kiana said. “It was right. We’re right. It was right before, and it can be right again.”
Michelle kept shaking her head. She took her purse from the back of her chair and clutched it to her chest. “I’m going to go pay and…” She took a deep breath and backed away from Kiana. “I’m going to pay and get back. It’s late. And I’m sure Michael is waiting up for me. I should go.” She turned and walked toward the bar. She stopped.
Kiana stood up.
Michelle turned. “We’re cool, right?”
Kiana’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t speak. She picked up her glass and drank the last swallow of whiskey. She clutched the glass and set it down, keeping her fingers wrapped around it.
“Key,” Michelle said. “We’re good, right? Say we’re good.”
Kiana bit the inside of her cheek. “Yeah,” she said. “We’re good.”
Michelle smiled. Kiana watched her chat with the bartender while she paid the tab. Michelle glanced at Kiana over her shoulder before taking her cell phone out of her handbag. Kiana felt sick, whiskey and wine bubbling up and burning the back of throat. She swallowed it down and waved at Michelle when she nodded her good-bye and walked out of the lounge, her phone pressed against her face, the curve of her lips as she spoke to what could only be her Michael already making a dream, a nightmare, a memory, of the kiss they shared.
Chapter Eleven
Friday
Kiana left three messages for Karyn. Two on her cell phone and one on her work phone. She needed to talk to someone. She couldn’t trust anyone. Not even herself. Her lips still burned from kissing Michelle, and though Genevieve left messages and sent texts trying to reach her, she didn’t want to talk to her either. Seeing her with that other woman deepened her confusion. For all the emotional shit Kiana tried to avoid, she found herself an absolute wreck, a sordid mess of hopes and desires, disappointment and confusion.
She sat at the hotel bar, spinning her phone and staring at the television, a suspended flat screen in the upper corner of the bar. SportsCenter, talking heads and streaming headlines, slow-motion dunks and replayed fouls, was something for Kiana to look at to avoid looking at herself. Her phone rang. She looked at the name. She didn’t want to answer it, but Genevieve’s calls were the only ones ringing her phone.
“Hello,” she said.
“Finally,” Genevieve said. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls? I’ve been worried about you, baby! I didn’t know if you had gone back to Chicago or if you—”
“What do you want, Genevieve?” Kiana said, cutting her off. She ordered another beer with a nod toward to the bartender. He pursed his lips and shook his head, flipping a towel over his shoulder and going into the cooler to grab another Heineken. The bartender, a scarecrow thin man with a shiny bald head and thin moustache and tiny, neatly-lined beard had greeted her like he knew her, asking her if she was feeling better, but Kiana shrugged it off with a dismissive smile.
“I want to talk,” Genevieve said. “Like I said, I was worried.”
“You ain’t got to worry about me,” Kiana said.
“What’s wrong?” Genevieve asked.
Kiana said nothing. She stared up at the screen. Two bald men in checkered blazers and loud, florescent double-Windsored ties, pointed and shook their heads at each other. Numbers and names flashed along the bottom of the screen.
“Is it Michelle?” Genevieve said.
; “No.”
“What is it then?”
“I’m not sure I want to talk about it,” Kiana said.
“That’s exactly why we should,” Genevieve said. “There’s a restaurant called Mother’s. Meet me there. Let’s talk. Eat and talk. You can tell me what your problem is while I inhale a po’ boy.” She chuckled. Kiana remained silent.
“Are you upset with me? If so, that’s kind of backward ain’t it, baby? You’re the one who—”
“Mother’s?” Kiana said, interrupting Genevieve and raising her hand toward the bartender.
“Yeah.” Genevieve cleared her throat. “It’s on Poydras.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.” Kiana ended the call before Genevieve could respond. “A shot of Jack. And don’t be shy.”
*
Kiana stepped out of the cab and stood on the corner, taking in the two-story brick relic that was Mother’s restaurant. It was busy. People huddled in small groups around the covered entrance, some with complimentary maps from hotels in the Quarter, others laughing and lighting cigarettes while leaning against the railed ramp leading to the door, all of them negotiating next stops. The afternoon, warm and bright, held promise for them. Kiana squinted against the sun and finger-picked her afro as she negotiated her own next steps. She wasn’t sure what to say to Genevieve. She recalled the woman she caught her with, and the evening before that when they got hot and heavy in her hotel room. Having kissed Michelle, everything felt set on an edge, one wrong move and she’d fall into oblivion.
Kiana entered the restaurant. Genevieve sat at a small table near the bustling register. The place buzzed with people and burst with smells. Kiana slid between bodies and pulled out a stool at the counter that ran along the windows facing the street. She sat down with a plop. She cut her eyes at Genevieve, who grinned then frowned.
Let the Lover Be Page 10