White Wicker and Wrought Iron

He stood on the front porch and professed his love in a long winded curse. The words, ready to be spat, sat on my tongue. I took it in; the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and shook my addiction.

The wind burrowed under the hairs on my arms, created a cold the shivers couldn’t disperse. Had it been that long ago that I left myself to the elements, walking into the hot damp of a New Orleans’ summer night? Yet again, I found myself exposed, my life lugged around in a green backpack, orbiting to the only place I knew to go when the moon hung low in the sky.

"You shaved your head." I hung my bag on the hook above the arranged row of sneakers.

"What do you think?" Van rubbed a hand down his smooth head to his sleepy eye.

"Makes you look too tough," I said. He looked splintered. The untreated curls had always masked the self-inflicted pain behind his eyes.

He arched his back, stretched his lean belly muscles. "You’re a softy under all that garb," he chuckled. "I’m going back to bed. There’s towels in the bathroom if you want to shower." Van followed me to the back of the house and swatted me on the rear before dodging into his room.

I stripped my clothes and dropped them to the floor. I stared at the long skirt, the tights, the torn Sonic Youth tee; studied them, then scooped them up and sat behind the door. I mixed them into the pile of jerseys and ribbed white tanks, tucked the tights under a pair of Girbaud’s.

Van cracked open the door. I shrunk against the wall in embarrassment.

"Crys?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m glad you’re home." The door shut.

In the shower, scrubbing the numbness from my skin, wincing with soap in my eyes, I whispered, "Me, too."

I rolled Rico to the cold side of the bed before getting in.

"Did you dry your hair?"

"Sort of," I lied.

"Get the towel." he pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard.

I sat between his legs, covers wrapped around our waists, while he rubbed the length of my hair between the towel.

"Will I see you in the morning?"

I picked at a loose thread on the quilt I made for him two birthdays ago. "I need to be here a while."

He wrung my hair out in the towel one last time before dropping it over the side of the bed. Under the covers, my nose pressed into the pillow, a soft kiss lingering on the nape of my neck, I thought about the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and saw them for what they were; chipped, rusted, and wilted.