Page 62 of Absinthe Dreams
“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Cy directed it at Gen and winked, and she laughed and shook her head.
“Where were you when I needed you in med school on those all-night cramming sessions?” she asked.
“Out here in da swamp, baby. Out here in da swamp.”
“It’s as good an alibi as any,” I joked, and they laughed with me.
It was a good breakfast, and I went to clean up, seeing as Cy had cooked, but he waved me off.
“Y’all git on now. I got this mess, and I’ll see y’all later.”
“You sure?” I asked him.
He turned down his mouth and nodded like some sage old man or some shit, and it was one of those moments you know he’d been picked right out his daddy’s ass. His dad did a hell of a lot of the same mannerisms, but to tell Cy would only get him riled up and denying it.
I told him, “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” He nodded again and waved us off.
Genesis and I left, and I walked her over to her car.
“Drive safe,” I told her. “I’ll follow you and see you at your place.”
I kissed her and opened her car door for her.
She started up the engine while I wandered over to my bike, taking a rag out of my back pocket to wipe off the seat from the remnants of rain from the night before still sitting on it.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the bike to air dry as I went down the highway on the six of Gen’s little roller-skate of a Fiat.
I hated the damn things, but for tooling around the city as a grocery getter or to dodge bad weather, it was perfect for her, given the tight parking accommodations in the alley behind her place.
The skies were blue, but the clouds that scudded over the sun every now and then were a leaden gray. Still, those clouds were few and far between enough that it was a good chance there wouldn’t be much when it came to rain, except a brief cloud burst here or a stray, short shower there.
It was humid, and the air was thick as pea soup, but that was South Louisiana for you.
We made it to her place without incident, and she parked in front of her little garage, which had a big ol’ back patio on the roof that was pretty barren. I got off my bike and thrust my chin up at it and asked, “You ever think about doin’ something with that?”
She looked up at the iron railing surrounding it and sighed.
“So many times,” she said. “Pots and plants and climbing vines on the railings and just turning it into a little patio oasis, but I just don’t have enough hours in the day.”
“Good to know,” I said thoughtfully. “A hammock would be nice, one with a frame. Get some reading in the sun, or even in the evening. Put up some lights around it, what do you think?”
She looked at me, a slow grin starting on her lips as she said softly, “I’d like that.”
We went inside, took a shower, changed clothes, and got ready to ride. I took her down to the French Market in the Quarter, where we browsed through stalls and at art, talking about working up the patio of her dreams and what she was most interested in doing. Pots? Half barrels like whiskey or wine barrels? Some combination of the two, maybe…
She was thoughtful in her answers, talking about how she’d love blue pots, and maybe a half-barrel at each corner, partially to support the stands I had suggested to hold string lights around all three sides, but maybe with some shepherd’s hooks to put some solar lanterns on.
I asked about plants, and said, “I always thought it’d be cool to plant something like a poison garden, you know? Flowers like oleander, deadly nightshade, shit like that.”
She sighed and said, “While that would be cool, I would worry about Charlie boy chewing on something he shouldn’t and getting horribly sick.”
“Damn, good point,” I said.
“Maybe if we ever had a house big enough that he was a full-time indoor cat – but that boy was alwaysmeantto be indoor only, he just wouldnotbe contained. He got a taste of the outside and never looked back. It’s been a struggle to keep him in ever since. We finally got to the routine of him coming in at night and just sort of fell naturally into him figuring out about when I got home.”
“Cats don’t live forever,” I said, practically – not to be a dick. “When Charlie’s time comes, we’ll get some kittens, and – I don’t know, only open the door when it’s wet and miserable out there so they have zero interest, then I can go ahead and plant whatever shit I want.”
She laughed and nodded, saying, “Deal.”
