Epilogue
After I finished writing the bulk of this I decided I should go and visit her. The last time I had seen her we saw Jurassic Park in the theater, so it has been some time, at least fifteen years. Although honestly, after so long, the years and months just sort of meld together into a tangled knot of memories and one of the most reliable ways I have of recalling when an event had taken place is what I was watching or listening to at the time.
She is in Boston now, making cakes and something she informs me are designer cupcakes. It’s some moronic fad, I am sure, but I had spent a week sequestered in my darkened home, typing this out, so I resolved to rebuild that repeatedly burned bridge. I miss her. Plain as day I do. She has made it abundantly apparent that she is a bossy, self-absorbed, bitter woman, but God help me after ten years or so I really do start to miss her.
Her shop, for lack of a better word, was colorful. It must have been the time of day when everyone decides they need cupcakes because I waited patiently in the back of the store while she rang up oodles of the overpriced little treats. Her Creole accent isn’t gone, it’s just hidden. There are no malapropisms in her speech, just a voice as sweet as the garish frosting, chirpily helping customers. Her hair was swept up into a retro-elegant nest of curls, cemented with what I assumed to be a metric ton of hairspray. She wore a dark green sleeveless shirt and a heart shaped pendant swung tantalizingly over her breasts.
The last customer had left and she smiled at me. “I did not expect you to take me up on my offer to visit.”
“Are you upset?” I asked her.
“If I was I wouldn’t be smiling, now would I?”
I laughed. “Yes, yes you would.”
She stopped smiling. “Ah, mon canard, do not be like that.” This was the point in our reconciliation where she became sentimental. “How about we make it work this time?”
“Ma bichette, we have had ages to try. I just do not believe it ever will,” I said, playing my part quite well, because if I didn’t resist there would be no satisfaction on her part when I eventually capitulate and agree to try again. And then comes the inevitability of the break-up. It could be one week from now or several decades. But it will come again, and I have as much faith in that as I have in the conviction that one of us will come crawling back to the other.
She reached into the glass counter and picked out a cupcake. “I tried this recipe out when I invited you.”
“I thought you thought I wasn’t going to come.” I approached the counter.
She shrugged. “True. But after all, I need to come up with new recipes. It’s pineapple.”
Her eyes studied me so of course I had to eat it. “Hmm,” I said after I finished, “it’s, unusual.”
Her beautiful smile lit up her face again. That was it, I know that that’s it, that’s my reward for all of this nonsense. “It’s awful, it’s not a good flavor for cake.” She took my hand in hers. “Tell you what, how about here in three weeks I fix you up a special cupcake, alright? Will you stay that long at least?”
Of course I did. I showed her all of this, everything I wrote, and she was rather flattered to say the least. If nothing we are completely honest with each other. She wants my attention now, so I must leave the glowing light of laptop and the silent living room (so much more comfortable than the parlor) and go and see what she needs from me now.
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Stay tuned for Volume Two.
Our Blissful Bayou Beginnings Page 5