It's Early, Still
The French Quarter is in many ways like the jungle. There is a particular time - around four in the morning - when everything grows silent. The drunks have passed out, perhaps. The bars have to close at some point if only to mop the floors and wash the glasses. I thought Kitty might have made a noise, but she sleeps soundly. No distress there. But the brick walls not only lack insulation (which is why I have the little heater running as high as I dare) they let all manner of sounds through. In the next apartment I can hear the girl weeping and telling someone, "I just want you to hold me."
I just want you to shut the hell up so I can go back to sleep.
I don't really sleep again, just doze. A short while later, pale, watery light is filtering through the curtains, and I can hear a garbage truck lumber past. Kitty sleeps on, happily oblivious to SDT Waste Removal, the chick who just wants to be held, and me stumbling around looking for something to wear.
I've had this apartment for years. It's a good hiding-out place and strategically located near my favorite Quarter watering holes. It's tiny. It makes a hotel room seem generous. But perched on the third floor, I can open the door without having to smell the rotting fish and stale urine odors of the street-level Quarter. With the sanitation crews going around, the streets don't smell quite so bad now. The sun is just above the horizon and a few denizens of the old quarter are up and around. I pull my coat close around me against the midwinter winds ripping off the river and walk two blocks over to Ursuline, to the Croissant D'Or.
The girl working the counter is entirely too chipper for six in the morning. But she cheerfully tolerates my groggy, not very intelligent order and guides me through the seemingly endless selections of coffee. It's a great irony of my life that I sometimes need to have had coffee in order to be smart enough to brew coffee. I get a pair of dark roasts with room for cream and sugar. I ponder the glass case and wonder what Kitty might like to nibble on. Hell, I don't even know what I want. For myself I stick with the usual - butter croissant. And they're massive objects - each as large as an infant's head. I get Kitty a strawberry tart.
"Jam?"
"Huh?" I blink dumbly at her over the rim of my go-cup. I already took a long sip of the potent, black coffee. The scent is as seductive as a belly dancer's easy rhythm twirling around me and I long to push my lips back into her luscious gyrations, but the girl at the register keeps asking me these questions.
"We have three kinds of jam."
"Sure."
"Cream cheese?"
What? Cream ... oh, fuck. "Sure, thanks."
"Fifteen eighty-one."
Back on the street I carry the cups of coffee in the open air and steam trails out of their lids. The pastries went down my jacket to stay warm next to my body. One pocket is full of cream cheese and three kinds of jam. I'm not even that fond of jam though I love orange marmalade. I make it up the three rickety flights of stairs and Kitty is still sleeping as I lock the door and unload my treasures. Damn, but I wish I could sleep that soundly. The last time I did, well, I was passed out dead drunk and it wasn't very restful. I nudge her carefully.
"I got something to eat. Wake up, dear."
Nothing. She sleeps on, smiling slightly. I sip my coffee and ... as bright as the flash of sequins on the bellydancer's costume an idea comes to me.
Blackberry jam. As I peer at the label on the little container I see it's from Thibodaux, of all places. Buy local. I pop the lid and tug at the sheet. Kitty stirs a little but doesn't wake up. Good.
I nudge the sheet down until she's exposed to the waist. Happily the air is warm from the little electric heater clicking in the bricked-up hearth. I dip my fingers into the jam and trail it across her breasts. The stuff is still cool from being in the fridge. I lick the extra off my fingers.
Ah, what else? I wave the coffee near her face, letting the suave, scented fingers of the dancer caress her nose. She stirs a little, working towards wakefulness. I bend to lick the jam away, and the surprise of warmth makes her start to sit up.
"I brought us something to eat," I tell her. She nods, still weighted with sleep.
"Good. I'd like some."
I smear a little jam on her lips.
I just want you to shut the hell up so I can go back to sleep.
I don't really sleep again, just doze. A short while later, pale, watery light is filtering through the curtains, and I can hear a garbage truck lumber past. Kitty sleeps on, happily oblivious to SDT Waste Removal, the chick who just wants to be held, and me stumbling around looking for something to wear.
I've had this apartment for years. It's a good hiding-out place and strategically located near my favorite Quarter watering holes. It's tiny. It makes a hotel room seem generous. But perched on the third floor, I can open the door without having to smell the rotting fish and stale urine odors of the street-level Quarter. With the sanitation crews going around, the streets don't smell quite so bad now. The sun is just above the horizon and a few denizens of the old quarter are up and around. I pull my coat close around me against the midwinter winds ripping off the river and walk two blocks over to Ursuline, to the Croissant D'Or.
The girl working the counter is entirely too chipper for six in the morning. But she cheerfully tolerates my groggy, not very intelligent order and guides me through the seemingly endless selections of coffee. It's a great irony of my life that I sometimes need to have had coffee in order to be smart enough to brew coffee. I get a pair of dark roasts with room for cream and sugar. I ponder the glass case and wonder what Kitty might like to nibble on. Hell, I don't even know what I want. For myself I stick with the usual - butter croissant. And they're massive objects - each as large as an infant's head. I get Kitty a strawberry tart.
"Jam?"
"Huh?" I blink dumbly at her over the rim of my go-cup. I already took a long sip of the potent, black coffee. The scent is as seductive as a belly dancer's easy rhythm twirling around me and I long to push my lips back into her luscious gyrations, but the girl at the register keeps asking me these questions.
"We have three kinds of jam."
"Sure."
"Cream cheese?"
What? Cream ... oh, fuck. "Sure, thanks."
"Fifteen eighty-one."
Back on the street I carry the cups of coffee in the open air and steam trails out of their lids. The pastries went down my jacket to stay warm next to my body. One pocket is full of cream cheese and three kinds of jam. I'm not even that fond of jam though I love orange marmalade. I make it up the three rickety flights of stairs and Kitty is still sleeping as I lock the door and unload my treasures. Damn, but I wish I could sleep that soundly. The last time I did, well, I was passed out dead drunk and it wasn't very restful. I nudge her carefully.
"I got something to eat. Wake up, dear."
Nothing. She sleeps on, smiling slightly. I sip my coffee and ... as bright as the flash of sequins on the bellydancer's costume an idea comes to me.
Blackberry jam. As I peer at the label on the little container I see it's from Thibodaux, of all places. Buy local. I pop the lid and tug at the sheet. Kitty stirs a little but doesn't wake up. Good.
I nudge the sheet down until she's exposed to the waist. Happily the air is warm from the little electric heater clicking in the bricked-up hearth. I dip my fingers into the jam and trail it across her breasts. The stuff is still cool from being in the fridge. I lick the extra off my fingers.
Ah, what else? I wave the coffee near her face, letting the suave, scented fingers of the dancer caress her nose. She stirs a little, working towards wakefulness. I bend to lick the jam away, and the surprise of warmth makes her start to sit up.
"I brought us something to eat," I tell her. She nods, still weighted with sleep.
"Good. I'd like some."
I smear a little jam on her lips.