New Orleans is a woman. He knows her intimately. He's seen her clothed in moonlight and naked as the day. He's followed the curves of her body to places he never imagined existed, breathed in her heady musky scent until it made him dizzy, made him drunk. He's swum in the rivers of her crowds slippery as a fish and twice as swift, he's found refuge in the cradle of her arms, been rocked to sleep by her big brass heartbeat. He's had his fingers on her pulse and his hands in her pockets for as long as he can remember. She's his first love.
He sits at the edge of the fountain beside Café Du Monde breathing in the sweetness of fresh beignets sipping his third café au lait as he waits for his second. He watches the powdered sugar swirling on the warm breeze and a napkin flutters against his boot. He picks it up. It says "Hi" in cherry red lipstick. He catches the eye of a blonde who winks, who nods at the empty chair at her table. He looks at her note again, shakes his head, grins.
"Sorry, chere… I wait for someone."
"You sure?" she purrs, "You've been sitting there an awfully long time…"
And he has. It's been almost two hours and she's still not here.
She'd never actually said that she would come, but he had hoped that as fucked up as everything was she would understand that yesterday hadn't been a mistake. Everything had been leading up to it for so long that when she finally reached for him, finally let him hold her it was like a dam breaking and an innocent afternoon swim had ended in sex. But that's not all it was, not this time, not for him. He'd looked down at his Belle, her body glistening with sweat like something jeweled and perfect and he'd felt… sated. For the first time in his life…
If he did nothing else but lie naked on the bayou painting "I love you's" on her skin with river mud he'd die a happy man.
He wants to tell her that. He'd been about to yesterday but he'd stopped himself because it was all too much. All he'd been able to say was "meet me at de café tomorrow at noon."
It's 1:47.
He thinks he knew all along that she wasn't going to come, that she wasn't going to choose him, but he sat here for over an hour anyway trying to make himself believe that any minute she was gonna come strolling up to him with that smile, with those big blue eyes and say "yes" to him, "yes" to what they had started all those years ago the first time they had laid eyes on each other. It's not going to happen. She'd whispered between kisses "we shouldn' be doin' this" and because she had been breathless because she had wanted him because she had been touching him and touching him and touching him it hadn't occurred to him that she meant it.
He looks at the blonde woman, at her legs tucked demurely under the wrought iron table, at her bare thighs dappled with the sunlight falling through. He looks at the Mardi Gras beads coiled around her wrist, the "Welcome to New Orleans" pamphlet peeking out of her bag. He swallows. She isn't coming.
"Need a tour guide, chere?"
Sexy cherry red smile.
Mama N'awlins sings a song of honking cars, hissing grills and clinking glasses, laughter and jazz. She's in a party mood…
She opens her eyes expecting a velvet bedspread under her cheek, expecting terrace doors to be flung open to the slow heat of the late afternoon and the friendly bustle of the French Quarter below. There'd been champagne and sex. Lots of sex. The girl had been rich, she'd wanted to do it on a velvet bed with twenty-dollar bills scattered across it like rose petals and he hadn't been tempted to take any of it, not once. He'd only gone back to her room for one reason. To fuck Belle out of his head, out of his heart and it hadn't worked.
She sits up. She's not in a hotel room. She's… in a subway car? A train comes down one of the tunnels, slashes of light cutting away some of the blackness. There are clothes in a corner, bottles on the floor, a boom box and a blanket. The smell of dirt and metal hits her empty stomach, making it heave.
"Where de hell am Ah…"
The train passes and an unnervingly empty silence follows.
She's alone. And she's too hot… She was too hot before… Where was that? When was that?
sweating bodies shining like silver under strobe lights… red eyes burning… hands sliding across velvet, sixty dollars floating to the floor… mud… pink skin… love you, belle… purple sweater… scarves like nooses, leather gloves up to her elbows… fingers on her elbow, a feather soft touch like a first kiss… bad touch… don't touch me… don't… touch me touch me touch me touch me…
Your name…
I'm askin'…
I'll remember…
Firelight flickers, flames go out, he falls like they all fall…
Burning
"Ahh…"
Fire in her hands, eating through the gloves… She watches the leather peel away like paper, like an orange skin… pink skin… too pink… glowing glowing…
"AHHHH…"
Black leather like burnt skin falls to the rubber mat on the metal floor haloed in pink, red, orange swaths of energy waving, waving like gauze.
BOOM
The explosion sends her flying back against the smudged windows. She slumps down on the seat staring at the charred scraps of glove dizzy and what the hell did Ah just do…
She holds herself in her arms, beginning to panic. This has never happened before. Memories, yes, voices, yes, confusion, disorientation, panic - check, check, check - all present and accounted for…
When did boom become a part of the bad thing?
Her arms are warm, hot.
"No no no no no no…"
Her sweater… her purple sweater's pink…
She tears it off and flings it away. It explodes in midair throwing her back against the seat again, her head knocking sharply against the glass.
Why is this happenin' t' me…? What did Ah do?
I killed him.
I killed him, Belle…
-/-
New York City is a man. A man with bourbon, a man with a cigar, a business suit, a card. It swaggers, it menaces. He drinks bourbon too, but he prefers cigarettes. He's only got one suit and it's been left behind.
Cards.
He's got cards alright.
He swaggers, he menaces, he takes what he wants with a flash of teeth, a flick of his wrist.
New York City is a bum. Homeless. Skyscrapers of cardboard. Peep shows and hookers, female, male, hey pretty boy, smile for me… hands in his pockets, skin on his skin they take what they want with a flash of cash but when their hands are busy so are his. He's getting more than a few bucks for this, he's getting it all. He's a businessman too…
New York City kicks his ass and he deserves it. He's left the ghosts behind, made one out of himself. He completely disappears. Eighteen is a man all alone in a big city with jazz you have to pay for…
No freebies, chere… Well, maybe jus dis one time, jus for you…
Whass my name? What you wannit to be?
"Remy…"
He's framed between the shoved open doors of an abandoned subway car, his hotel room missing its terrace, no spicy breeze, no music. Screech of metal, slices of light outline his body as he stands there and stares, shocked.
"How you get here…" She doesn't answer, she doesn't know. She looks at her hands. Naked, no gloves. They're curled on the floor, burnt. Scraps of purple… her sweater… Deborah… She wants to cry but she doesn't do that. Her eyes burn instead. She feels him move, holds out a hand to stop him.
"Stay there!"
He pauses, says softly, "Don' be 'fraid, chere, I ain' gonna hurt you… jus' gonna…" he slowly slides his coat down his shoulders and off his arms. He holds it out to her. "Here, take it. It get cold down here…"
Goosebumps rise on her bare skin as she realizes she's wearing nothing but her bra and jeans, boots. She accepts his jacket with a shaking hand and pulls it on, clasping it shut over her breasts, feeling the heat from his body wrap around her.
"Ah… burnt mah clothes…" He looks at what's left of them and sits down on the bench across from her frowning.
"How you do dat?"
"Mah hands… it came from mah hands…"
"Like dis?" He takes a card from an open deck splayed out on the seat next to him and holds it up between his fore and middle fingers. It highlights the slope of his cheeks in pink neon and she nods, eyes wide as it burns itself to ash. He brushes his hand on his thigh. "An here I was tinkin' I was an original…"
"Original what?" she whispers.
"Mutant, chere. You can do de big boom too, eh? Maybe dat's why I pass out? We got wires crossed?"
"Ah thought Ah killed ya…"
"Woke up 'bout an hour 'go wit de shakes. Jus' thought I had me some bad ecsta- extra-strength Tylenol… Wallet was gone. Dat was humiliatin' considerin'…"
"Y' a theif…" He raises his eyebrows.
"Now how you know dat?"
"Ah know about you…"
His eyes harden, they flash.
"What you doin' here, chere? Who are you?"
She shakes her head, she doesn't want him mad at her, she's too weak to fight. She doesn't want to have to touch him again.
"Ah'm… Ah can't blow stuff up… never could 'fore Ah touched you anyway… Usually when Ah do dat - that - people die… an' Ah take things from them… Ah take their mem'ries… Ah got yours... Remy…"
He stares at her, swallows. She can tell he's uncomfortable and it bothers him.
"Serves me right chasin' after a girl dat didn' wan' be caught…" he mutters to himself and then smiles sheepishly. "But den I wouldn' be me if I didn' try…"
"Why did ya follow me…"
"I wanted to help you find you frien'."
"Why would you even care?"
"You sad. I don' like dat." He rubs his eyes, his temples. "Dat's one hell of a power you got dere… knocked me flat on my ass…"
"Ah'm sorry…"
"I'm sorry. Wish I'd known… I could have helped you wit dat…" He gestures at the scorch marks on the floor. "First time I got dem every'ting I touch - bakow… Took me a long time to get dem ta work for me 'stead against me. My hands still not too pretty." He shows them to her, shows her the scars crisscrossing over his palms. "I wear gloves too…"
He trails off. He's staring at her chest. She looks down at her hands holding his coat shut over it and there's blood under them, staining it.
"Merde…" He sinks down to his knees, reaching out to her and she stiffens. He pauses. "I jus' wanna help, chere… I know how much it hurts…" She slowly let's go of his coat, shows him her hands. She sucks in her breath when she sees them. Red. Black.
"Oh mah God…" He reaches for a bottle of alcohol on the floor and untwists the cap.
"I know it look bad, but it jus' de first layer o' skin dat's gone. It'll heal… won't hurt so much in a week o' so… Dis though…" He holds up the bottle. "You gonna hate me but I hafta…"
"Juh… just do it…"
He pours, and she tries not to scream.
-/-
He bandages her hands with scraps of a silk shirt, carefully wrapping them up, carefully avoiding her skin. She watches him, breathes him in. He's so close but she's not feeling that panicky feeling in her stomach, her shoulders, like she usually does. It's something softer, lighter. He smells good. She coughs, her face feeling too warm.
"Ya live here?"
"I sleep here. Sometimes."
"Ya got money f' silk shirts an' "extra-strength Tylenol" but not a place to stay?"
"I got 'spensive habits, chere. 'Sides I move round a lot." Different apartments, different houses, different bedrooms. "I may be getting' out o' here soon though… maybe got me a place to go…" He looks into her eyes, still holding her bandaged hands in his. "Maybe you come too… People like us-"
"Ah got a place." He reluctantly lets go of her hands and leans back against the seat bank as she asks, "How many are there? Mutants Ah mean…"
"Hundreds, thousands, who knows? Y'never heard o' mutants b'fore?"
"Ah'm from Mississippi."
He smiles, points to himself.
"Louisiana."
Ah know…
"I didn' know either 'till I came out here."
"Is it… is it our fault? That we have… powers?"
"Iss in our genes, like bein' born wit' green eyes 'stead o' blue. O' red eyes fo' dat matter - luck o' de draw."
"Ah meant… like the powers specific to us… Did you develop that on purpose?" She nods at the pile of ash on the floor.
"You mean was I sittin' around tirteen years old 'tinkin' 'if only I could blow stuff up'… and den bang?" He smiles. "I don' tink so… I mean you weren' sittin' aroun' wishin' y'couldn' be touched, right?"
"Right," she whispers.
"Damn shame it is"
"What?"
"Dat you can't be. You feel good. Dat's de last ting I thought before de zap. I thought, "dis girl has de softest skin…"" He pulls out a cigarette, slips it into his mouth. "Dat's sayin' sometin', I've touched a lot o'-"
She gets to her feet and he stares up at her from the floor, his unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Whass wrong?"
"Ah have ta go."
"You still weak, chere."
"Ah'm fine, Ah jus' wanna go home…"
"I'll go wit' you." He stands up and she shakes her head. "Jus' to make sure you get dere okay - dat's all."
"No… Ah jus wanna be alone."
He stares at her for a long moment, says softly, "You leavin' me again?" She doesn't answer and he turns away, picks up a shirt from one of the seats. "Here, de coat ain' gon' be enough…" She tries to take it from him with her bandaged hands, wincing as she bends her fingers. "Will you let me help?"
She takes a deep breath and nods. He puts the shirt down to part the material of the coat, keeping his eyes on hers as he carefully slips it off her shoulders. It drops to the floor, and he helps her with the shirt, one arm then the other.
He steps in a little closer, his eyes never leaving hers as he buttons it for her slowly, one at a time.
He finishes and neither of them moves.
"Your name, chere…"
She shakes her head.
"You don' trust me?" She stares up at him thinking, I know you too well… and he sighs almost like he knows. "Non, I wouldn' neither…"
She steps back, awkwardly turns to leave but he holds something out to her.
Gloves.
"T'replace th' other ones…" he says.
She takes them from him. She whispers "Thanks…" and he nods, watching her go from the doorway as another train rattles down the tunnel, slices of light cutting through the darkness.