We laughed and flirted between bites. The wine made everything warmer. Slower. Sweeter. At one point, the music switched to a soulful saxophone version of “Adore” by Prince and I felt myself melt into the night like it was my own skin.
Somewhere between me licking sauce off my fingers and licking something else with my eyes, he asked me a question.
“What kind of love do you want?”
I looked at him. Not the way I looked when I was undressing him with my eyes or playing with my food to be cute. This time… I looked like a woman who’d been waiting for someone to ask her that. And mean it.
“I want a love that doesn’t need a GPS to find me where I already am,” I said softly. “I want a love that feels like breath. Like ease. Like coming home.”
He just listened. I sipped my wine and kept going.
“I want a love that lets me be loud when I’m loud and soft when I’m soft. I want to be understood when I make sense and still held even when I don’t.”
He blinked slowly.
“I want to be chosen without convincing. Needed without begging. Missed in a way that doesn’t just say I miss you but moves like it. I want forehead kisses and hands on the small of my back. Random texts. Shared playlists. The kind of stuff people forget to ask for when they’re in love.
“And more than anything,” I whispered, “I want to be safe. Not just protected… but safe. Safe to cry. To be messy. To dream out loud without being told it’s too much. To say, I’ve been through hell but I still believe in heaven.”
My voice cracked on that last word. He reached across the table and gently wiped under my eye with his thumb.
“You deserve that,” he said quietly. “You deserve all of that.”
I nodded, holding back tears. “I know. And I didn’t always. I used to think I was too complicated to find love. But now, I know I just need someone with the right map.”
His hand slid into mine.
“Now I’m letting life surprise me. Because if I would’ve stayed in my little box of what I thought I needed… I’d have never been on this rooftop. I’d have never tasted this shrimp. And I’d have never met you.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it.
“You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re just not for everybody.”
12
Lyrix
The city had a heartbeat, and the night led us straight to Frenchmen Street.
Maison parked a few blocks down, and we walked hand in hand. The air was thick with music. We stopped at the first corner where local artists had their booths set up beneath string lights. Canvases leaned against trees, and tables spilled over with handmade jewelry, incense, oils, candles, wood carvings, and more colors than my eyes could keep up with.
A pair of earrings caught my attention. I lingered but I didn’t say a word. I just looked too long.
Next thing I knew, Maison had slipped over to the booth, whispered something to the woman behind it, and when I turned, he was already walking back with a velvet pouch in hand.
“Keep looking,” he said casually, tucking the bag into my palm. “You blinked at ‘em too long. That meant they belonged to you.”
I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.
At the next table, there were acrylic paintings of Black women with thick thighs, full lips, natural hair like crowns. I wanted every single one.
He bought two before I could even decide.
“I don’t need a gallery,” I joked.
Then we came across a watercolor painting of a couple in full Mardi Gras attire with glitter on their skin. We both froze.
“Tell me that don’t look like us from the other day,” he said.
