Romance and other adjectives

Henri thought to herself that she had never been in love.

 She had been attracted to both men and women, at different times and for different reasons. She just had never made that close of a connection with anyone. 

She had, had lovers, although Henri preferred the term sex partners.

 Those sweaty grunting moaning sessions should, and could not be confused with love.

 Try as she might Henri just wasn’t that great at finding common ground with most people. She danced to a beat that was all her own, she always had.

 Growing up as a “PK”, a Preacher’s kid, Henri”s overbearing father had attempted to force her to toe the line, to no avail. 

For Henri, male or female it  was  fairly easy to find bed partner. It was difficult to find someone who danced to the same song as you. Who recognized all the colors of your aura, and with whom eating cereal felt like a feast.

 The closest Henri had ever come was her senior year roommate. She and Henri had been thick. The pair had never been intimate. Never shared a kiss or tender caresses. Henri hadn't looked at Rayne that way.

 Rayne just got her, she had known when Henri needed a cup of tea, or a tub of ice cream. Rayne and Henri had been the same kind of oddly wonderful.

 They were still friends on Facebook, but they never really talked.

 After graduating from Xavier University in New Orleans Henri had struggled with what to do next. She knew she didn't want to return to Houston. She had narrowly escaped from her parent's overpowering clutches the 1st time.  Especially her Father. She refused to wind up like her brother tied to the church and victim of “The Bishop’s” whims.

 Her Father had of course offered her a job “With the Ministry”. No thanks! 

He had only agreed to Xavier in the first place because Henri had sold him on it being the only Black, Catholic college in the U.S. He still had popped up on campus several times; until she threatened to transfer.

 Henri remained in New Orleans after graduation, initially just to be stubborn. 

Her Father insisted on her getting rid of her natural hair. He objected to her nose ring, and thought her art was “A waste of yo God given talents!" God, He sounded overbearing even in her mind. 

She hadn't been sure what she wanted to do with her degree originally. She was an interior designer with no interiors. Henri had been on the verge of going home.

 She just wanted to make things beautiful and her Father had offered to let her redecorate his mega church. She knew in her heart she, didn't want to do that. So when her part-time job had offered her a lucrative  position as the Director of Visual Marketing, she had said yes.

 Her Father The Honorable Bishop Malachi Montblanc had been livid. He liked to keep up appearances and liked to save face. The mere idea of his daughter living in “That modern day Gomorrah” and “Dressing like that fool woman Erica Voodoo” was a source of disgrace.

 Henri, recalled all the harsh, judgmental, and decidedly one sided conversations they’d had as a result.

  “I feel completely at home here” Henri thought to herself as she strolled the French Quarter. She had locked her bike back on St. Peter St.

 She enjoyed the walk.

 The Quarter had so much character. It was more of a home to her then the Houston suburb where she had grown up.

 She was still angry with herself for not buying in the actual French Quarter. A friend of a friend had gone over to Atlanta for a movie shoot, and fallen head over heels in love with some guy who worked security on the set. At least that was the story Henri had been told, by Dena, when she had told her about the place.

 She only had to ride her bike 15 minutes to get here,and it was a gorgeous ride. 

 But there was just something…Henri grappled with the right word. 

She wanted a word, to explain the Old world charm, the Caribbean, mixed with European.

The feeling of carnival and revelry, even when there were no festivities.

 The pretty woman pushed her glasses back. As always they'd slid down her freckled nose. She stared down the street, at two boys, with taps attached to some old Air Jordan's.  Obvious, "Hand-me-downs", that might have been looted during Katrina. That was the feeling. Them, and the cheaply costumed clown, the one, making the little girl he was tying a balloon animal for cry. The artists, who were set up at different points down Daulphin St, painting in every style from impressionistic to caricature. The old man, playing his saxophone, who's eyes had seen everything from lynchings, to the first potus whose skin resembled his own.

 Henri saw the hummingbirds, darting among the flowers adorning the balconies of homes, homes, that had stood when union soldiers, had marched these streets, fresh from the beds of the most cunning prostitutes, along the mighty river.

She was stuck. There had to be a phrase, some description, of the aromas that, didn’t just fill the air, but embraced you and tickled your cilia. The sounds that resonated into your marrow, laughter, boat horns, seagulls, music of all kinds, and the muted murmurs of lovers.

 Sweat coated Henri’s bare shoulders, and her burgundy locks, tied in a scarf seemed to magnify the humidity. Henri gripped her basket against her skirt as a clumsy tourist, staggered past. She didn't spare him a glance. 

 If she had she would have spied the two thieves form a silent pact to give the outsider his “just dessert” for being disrespectful to such a beautiful lady.

 Henri didn't have a pressing need for anything, other than an excuse to leave the house, and the French Quarter was always enough of an excuse.

 The market had a smell all it’s own. Even after five years Henri thought that she could always find something new.  Like  her copper and stone jewelry, that circled both arms. Henri had bought them in the Quarter.

 Maybe she could "Make grocery" as the natives called it.

 Henri thought of all the things, she might need in her kitchen.

 Her kitchen, Henri had built her kitchen entirely by herself, she had torn down the old cabinets, painted, and built an island. The tin backsplash, she saw that on Pinterest, oh yeah diy, baby.

 Her stove was an antique that she had poured over hours of video to learn how to restore, it was perfect, and shone like brand new brass. It was a lovely place to prepare a meal. 

 Henri eyed a particularly alluring flat of peppers, a rich purple hue lending them regal purpose.

 She strolled closer and held the pepper closer to her leonine, hazel orbs, and pushed her glasses back, all in a flowing poetic move. 

“What are these?” She asked without looking at the vendor.

 “I can create a romantic name for them if you want me to Cher but those are basically, purple bell pepper.“ 

Henri balked at the diminutive, she knew that New Orleans natives,  often attached terms of endearment to people, like “Bay-bae”,“Beaux “, or “Cher” but she wasn't a fan of the practice.

 Her focus shifted to the speaker, at first glance he seemed as Regal as the peppers, “Yeah and he's probably just as ordinary.” she thought.

 “That's not to say that they're ordinary.” His voice interrupted, and seemed to have responded to her thoughts.

 “The scientific name is Capsicum Annuum, this particular seed is called a purple beauty.”

 He had an easy smile, as he described the fruit. Henri noticed, and as the knowledgeable man continued, her initial impression of royalty was reinforced.

“Now keep in mind that the handsome purple hue is lost in the cooking process. For the best flavor and aesthetic value use in a salad. May I show you something else?” Henri said yes without thinking. The  Trader continued ,“These are sensational.” He reached under his table and pulled out a basket of vegetables so exotic they belonged on Pandora.

 Bolivian rainbow peppers, Atomic grape tomatoes, royal yams, and Broccoli Romanesco. He explained each item, as he pointed them out. “This one that looks like cactus is the Romanesco, some people call it broccoli others cauliflower, I call it amazing. I love it too because it’s name is similar to mine.”

 Henri knew that the alluring man was angling for her to ask his name, and she refused to. He smiled at her, his perfect teeth a soft white splash, against the golden bronze of his skin. His dreadlocks looked like a true lion's mane. The reddish-brown, blonde mixture as exotic as the herbaceous plants he sold. 

“I’m Roman ma’am Roman Gucchard. These are my babies. I grow all of them with my own hands.” The comment shifted her gaze to his long well boned hands, his nails were clean, and well manicured, not at all what she would have expected from a farmer.

 Perhaps her poker face slipped because Roman again appeared to read her thoughts. “Sometimes, we judge books by their cover Mon Petit when we really ought to be reading them.” 

Henri hurriedly bought her veggies, so she could prepare a beautiful salad, and walked back to her bike. She tied her purchases up in the rear basket and was headed towards her 3rd ward townhouse. 

Suddenly, she spun her bicycle on the cobblestones, and rode all the way back to the market. Right up to the fruit and vegetable stand manned by Roman. She engaged the kickstand and took the two steps towards the table. 

Not fully sure why, Henri walked up to the man and said. “My name is Henrietta Montblanc, I think that I want to read the book.”

 On the ride back to her townhouse Henri realized that the word she was looking for was Romantic the city was Romantic.

 She also realized she was wrong, she had been in love before and still was.

 With the city of New Orleans.