Page 21

Poppy

“Fi!” I skip to the end of the bar. “I need a Tito and soda.”

“You don’t. That’s six. You need to get home to that woman of yours and tell her to mix you another drink. That way you pass out in your bed and not on my bar. Go.”

Ralph shakes his head and smiles. Then vacates his seat at the end of the bar. The half barn door squeaks as he exits.

Sheree yells from across the room, “Girl, I need a couple of Jacks with Bud backs, and did you make the gumbo today?” We only have a waitress on the weekends and big game nights. Rest of the time they can get their asses to the bar.

I shake my head. I made it last week and everyone lost their damn minds. “I made the side. Come up and get your drinks.” I missed my coleslaw made with, ironically, a poppy seed dressing. I pull two Buds and pour out three shots of Jack. One is gone before she can even retrieve her drinks.

Other than Ralph’s spot, five of the eight stools at the bar are taken. There are some frat asses getting good and liquored up watching a baseball game in the corner on the far side away from the pool table. Sugar Lips slides in and I pour him a hot tea and a whiskey with honey in it. One liquor drinks only. He nods. It’s his ritual before he heads out to play his trombone for the tourists that crowd into spaces like Preservation Hall. He has a sadness to him that I like. That I feel. My gaping hole of sadness has never healed over. I keep waiting, but I understand Sam now. I send him a message on a burner. I wonder what his life looks like now that he’s over there alone. Moving locations hasn’t helped me. Wonder if it helps him.

UNKNOWN: There is no closure.

SAM: Fuck off. Be brave enough to go home, you selfish, tiny woman.

UNKNOWN: Says the man not allowed to go home. Love you too. Bonjour!

SAM: Fuck off.

SAM: Love you back.

SAM: But seriously fuck off.

UNKNOWN: xo

“Chere, you look a vision.” I hike up my leather shorts a bit in the back so my ass doesn’t sneak out. I nod at Sugar. I place a cookie next to his tea. One I randomly made, and he points to my ink. I grin and don’t explain what it is. But I enjoy having it.

I slide a shot down to Skinny Pete. He’s new here but fits right in. I like him. He’s one of those people who is super chatty but says nothing at all in his sweet magnolia accent. I like how melodic people sound around here. I used to be a little like him, wasting my breath, worrying about what everyone else was doing or thinking.

Bear walks up and hoists my arm up for everyone to see, “Behold bitches, our Fiona’s got new ink!” Boomer shines a flashlight on my arm. It’s my second tattoo in six weeks. It’s bright and bold and makes me feel a little happier looking at it. It’s some vines and leaves wrapped around my bicep with a bright red poppy and a skylark. Visions of who I was. My other arm sports a skull and crossbones to remind myself that my sadness is slowly poisoning me. I’ve taken to wearing sleeveless shirts to show them off.

Skinny Pete nods and signals for me to come on over. “What do they mean? It’s some cool cat work.”

“Just someone’s flash pieces I picked up.” Not really but whatever.

He examines my arm further, moving it around like it’s jewels or something. “Them vines? Are those grapevines?”

And leaves. Syrah grapes, to be specific. I shrug and say, “Could be. I just like the shape of the leaf.” I take my arm back and do another little shot with him.

I stare at my arm for a second. People rarely know that each grape varietal has a different leaf. To them, a grape leaf is a grape leaf, but each grape has a distinctive one.

I know exactly what they are. A Syrah leaf has five distinct points that feather off the stem like an angel. There’s a defined separation and looks like it could fly off the vine. When I was little I thought they represented the five family vineyards we were always around.

I glance around and I’m positive I’m the only one in this bar that knows that this leaf on my arm differs from a Cab leaf. That a Cab leaf, when held to the light, looks like it has these secret little holes between their veins. Or that a Chardonnay leaf is one solid big leaf and when you hold a bunch of them together, they make a pretty good fan in the summer. Syrah is my favorite leaf because of the shape, but the wine was his favorite. And the vines were where we got married.

I slide behind Bear after a round of applause and get into the rhythm of beer pulling on a Saturday night. The place is crowded and crazy. Boomer moved the pool table over and Bear hoisted up the center light to make a four-by-four dance floor. Everyone plays songs that have nothing to do with me.

Something thrums deep inside every time I catch myself not being completely a zombie. It’s the voice that whispers to me at night. “You had your happy. You already had it.” Like there’s only so much in the world and if I do find more, somehow it diminishes Sal.

I shake off my thoughts and return to the now. My black hair has faded, and the red is seeping through, but everyone seems to like it and it feels redefined, so I kept it. I was afraid if I saw my real reflection, I’d be sad or triggered. But turns out that’s just who the fuck I am. In a constant state of triggers, all the time, regardless of my hair color.

“Who needs?” I yell to the crowd, washing down a pot gummy. Time to get busy and then get numb.

Chapter

Eighteen