After we hung up, I sat on the edge of my bed. I turned back to my vision board and added one last sticky note in the corner.
It said:“Fall in love… even if it’s just with my damn self.”
I stuck it right next to the cutout of a woman in red lipstick holding a Hand Grenade cocktail. She looked free and a little dangerous. Exactly how I planned to feel my entire week there.
3
Lyrix
Stepping off the plane in New Orleans felt like walking straight into a hair steamer. The humidity was no joke. My silk press didn’t even make it past baggage claim. Still, the air felt alive and sweet like powdered sugar.
My Uber driver pulled up in a dented white Impala with jazz music blasting with the windows down. I glanced down at myHeaux Phase Vision Board, folded neatly in my lap, and right there in bold pink letters, it said:“Have sex with jazz echoing through an open window.”
I looked up at the driver. Then back at the board. Then at him again.
Was this how God was going to play it? Was this my test? Because the saxophone solo was saxophoning, and I was onebad decision away from telling that man to pull over, so I could give him the best five minutes of his life. But then he started coughing one of those deep, smoker coughs that sounded like regret and menthol. I looked at the vision board again and crossed my legs tighter. Okay. So this trip was for spontaneity, not desperation. Message received.
When he caught his breath, he said, “You here to kick off Mardi Gras?”
“Something like that,” I said, wiping imaginary sweat from my upper lip.
He nodded, grinning. “It’s gone be wild all month. You look like you ready for some fun.”
If only he knew.
I smiled politely, trying not to look like I was two seconds from laughing at my own foolishness. “Yeah, something like that,” I said again, because how exactly do you tell a stranger,‘Actually, sir, I came here to complete a vision board about sexy heaux phase chaos’?
He dropped me off at my hotel. By the time I checked in, unpacked, and reapplied deodorant for the third time, I was already sweating and overthinking. But the easiest vision board task was waiting:“Try a voodoo love potion at a bar and see what happens next.”
The bar was dim and sticky. The air smelled like rum and fried food. A perfect combination.
I climbed onto a stool and scanned the drink menu. “Do you have anything called a voodoo love potion?” I asked. The bartender looked up. He was a tall man with tattoos that looked like they came with backstories, and a smile that said he was trouble.
“You sure you want that one?” he asked. His voice was deep, soaked in that NOLA accent that made my brain short-circuit for a second.
“Why?” I asked. “It’s not on the menu?”
He smirked. “It’s not for tourists.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I lied instantly, setting myself up for hell.
He laughed, wiping the counter. “You lying already. That’s how it starts.”
“I’m just trying to experience the culture,” I said, crossing my legs like I wasn’t already intrigued.
He leaned closer. “The culture or the consequences?”
“Both,” I said without thinking.
He laughed and started mixing something bright purple with a sprinkle of something Ihopedwas sugar. “You drink this, you might fall in love with the first person you see,” he said.
“Sounds like a scam. I’ve been drinking for years and that’s never happened.”
“You’ve been drinking in the wrong places.”
I didn’t mean to stare at him like he was both the drink and the hangover, but here we were.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
