CREOLE FOLKS

Poetic Take on Kate Chopin's "The Storm" & Complete Story

The Storm A Sequel to "The 'Cadian Ball" by Kate Chopin
					I The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was going to rain. Bobinôt, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child's attention to certain sombre clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Friedheimer's store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise. "Mama'll be 'fraid, yes," he suggested with blinking eyes. "She'll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helpin' her this evenin'," Bobinôt responded reassuringly. "No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin' her yistiday," piped Bibi. Bobinôt arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of which Calixta was very fond. Then he retumed to his perch on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst. It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field. Bibi laid his little hand on his father's knee and was not afraid. II Calixta, at home, felt no uneasiness for their safety. She sat at a side window sewing furiously on a sewing machine. She was greatly occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She unfastened her white sacque at the throat. It began to grow dark, and suddenly realizing the situation she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and doors. Out on the small front gallery she had hung Bobinôt's Sunday clothes to dry and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell. As she stepped outside, Alcée Laballière rode in at the gate. She had not seen him very often since her marriage, and never alone. She stood there with Bobinôt's coat in her hands, and the big rain drops began to fall. Alcée rode his horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and there were plows and a harrow piled up in the corner. "May I come and wait on your gallery till the storm is over, Calixta?" he asked. "Come 'long in, M'sieur Alcée." His voice and her own startled her as if from a trance, and she seized Bobinôt's vest. Alcée, mounting to the porch, grabbed the trousers and snatched Bibi's braided jacket that was about to be carried away by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside, but it was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open: the water beat in upon the boards in driving sheets, and he went inside, closing the door after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the water out. "My! what a rain! It's good two years sence it rain' like that," exclaimed Calixta as she rolled up a piece of bagging and Alcée helped her to thrust it beneath the crack. She was a little fuller of figure than five years before when she married; but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue eyes still retained their melting quality; and her yellow hair, dishevelled by the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples. The rain beat upon the low, shingled roof with a force and clatter that threatened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They were in the dining room—the sitting room—the general utility room. Adjoining was her bed room, with Bibi's couch along side her own. The door stood open, and the room with its white, monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious. Alcée flung himself into a rocker and Calixta nervously began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had been sewing. "If this keeps up, Dieu sait if the levees goin' to stan it!" she exclaimed. "What have you got to do with the levees?" "I got enough to do! An' there's Bobinôt with Bibi out in that storm—if he only didn' left Friedheimer's!" "Let us hope, Calixta, that Bobinôt's got sense enough to come in out of a cyclone." She went and stood at the window with a greatly disturbed look on her face. She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture. It was stiflingly hot. Alcée got up and joined her at the window, looking over her shoulder. The rain was coming down in sheets obscuring the view of far-off cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon. Calixta put her hands to her eyes, and with a cry, staggered backward. Alcée's arm encircled her, and for an instant he drew her close and spasmodically to him. "Bonté!" she cried, releasing herself from his encircling arm and retreating from the window, the house'll go next! If I only knew w'ere Bibi was!" She would not compose herself; she would not be seated. Alcée clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her warm, palpitating body when he had unthinkingly drawn her into his arms, had aroused all the old-time infatuation and desire for her flesh. "Calixta," he said, "don't be frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck, with so many tall trees standing about. There! aren't you going to be quiet? say, aren't you?" He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming. Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a glimpse of her full, firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded him of Assumption. "Do you remember—in Assumption, Calixta?" he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now—well, now—her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts. They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world. The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached. When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life's mystery. He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders. The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield. III The rain was over; and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a palace of gems. Calixta, on the gallery, watched Alcée ride away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face; and she lifted her pretty chin in the air and laughed aloud. Bobinôt and Bibi, trudging home, stopped without at the cistern to make themselves presentable. "My! Bibi, w'at will yo' mama say! You ought to be ashame'. You oughta' put on those good pants. Look at 'em! An' that mud on yo' collar! How you got that mud on yo' collar, Bibi? I never saw such a boy!" Bibi was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobinôt was the embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to remove from his own person and his son's the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He scraped the mud off Bibi's bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully removed all traces from his heavy brogans. Then, prepared for the worst—the meeting with an over-scrupulous housewife, they entered cautiously at the back door. Calixta was preparing supper. She had set the table and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in. "Oh, Bobinôt! You back! My! but I was uneasy. W'ere you been during the rain? An' Bibi? he ain't wet? he ain't hurt?" She had clasped Bibi and was kissing him effusively. Bobinôt's explanations and apologies which he had been composing all along the way, died on his lips as Calixta felt him to see if he were dry, and seemed to express nothing but satisfaction at their safe return. "I brought you some shrimps, Calixta," offered Bobinôt, hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the table. "Shrimps! Oh, Bobinôt! you too good fo' anything!" and she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek that resounded, "J'vous réponds, we'll have a feas' to-night! umph-umph!" Bobinôt and Bibi began to relax and enjoy themselves, and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud that anyone might have heard them as far away as Laballière's. IV Alcée Laballière wrote to his wife, Clarisse, that night. It was a loving letter, full of tender solicitude. He told her not to hurry back, but if she and the babies liked it at Biloxi, to stay a month longer. He was getting on nicely; and though he missed them, he was willing to bear the separation a while longer—realizing that their health and pleasure were the first things to be considered. V As for Clarisse, she was charmed upon receiving her husband's letter. She and the babies were doing well. The society was agreeable; many of her old friends and acquaintances were at the bay. And the first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the pleasant liberty of her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her husband, their intimate conjugal life was something which she was more than willing to forego for a while. So the storm passed and every one was happy. 1898

 

 

 This is my poetic take on Creole Writer, Kate Chopin's "The Storm"

by Ted DuPlessis

We come from 2 different stations

You live in a cottage; I own a Belle Chase plantation

 

Our love had to be hidden and never seen

Your a Cajun girl from Assumption; I am a Creole gentleman from New Orleans

 

I came by on a rainy Louisiana day; Voluez Vous-remember me" How you do?

 

The storm outside was wet and cold

What would have happened if we were; would we grow old?

 

I should have up and ran for the door; but you look so good staring out that window

Kiss me. don't worry about my wife; she across state lines.... in Mississippi

 

Sorry mademoiselle; that I do not have any flowers

But it was too late, she rocked me during passion's hour

 

Then calmed me after wards so slow & gifted; Suddenly the mood shifted

I didn't mean to make you a sinner; you said it was o.k. and started up making dinner

 

The storm lifted, and the reality of life grew so sour

Au revoir. See, you again my love; when the hands of time; once again strikes.....passion's hour

 

 

Louisiana Irish-Creole Writer-Kate Chopin(1851-1904). By Creole Folks

 

Creole Folks-"Kate's mother, was from an aristocratic Creole family. Young Kate attended a Catholic convent school in Louisiana and at 19 married Oscar Chopin.  Oscar was a Creole cotton broker from New Orleans. The Chopin's lived on a plantation near Cloutierville,La.  Cloutierville was populated with White French Creoles, Cajuns and Creoles of Colors.  Cloutierville was a place that many New Orleans Creoles settled into after many hostile, uneducated whites migrated into Louisiana after the Civil War and even more uneducated, hostile African Americans-who were freed from slavery, also resented the Creoles of Color. 

From my research, Kate Chopin's mother was from a very rich Louisiana French Creole family.  Her mother met an Irishman from St.Louis who was also well off and married him but Kate was raised by her La. French-Creole family.  I guess the fact that she wasn't close to her father's Irish family, could be why she took the name Chopin instead of her father's surname, O'Flaherty.

 

Many white French Creoles migrated into more rural parts of Louisiana, where the River couldn't carry in immigrants from other parts of the U.S. very easily.  Plantation rural areas like, Cloutierville, were a refuge for many Creoles, Cajuns and Creoles of Color who wanted to escape the low social rung American population that poured into North Louisiana and New Orleans.  White non-French Protestants and African Americans just destroyed the entire vibe of Creole Louisiana after the Civil War.

Kate's writing created literary scandals due to her very frank and blunt observations on American culture that included many unpleasant truths and on her strong, female lead characters that were very sexual and free, which was unheard back in Kate's day!  It took almost a decade for an audience to become open and sympathetic to Kate's ahead of her time, writings."

In Fact, I am reading "The Storm" and it is about a desperate housewife named Calixta, who cheats on her family with Alcee Laballiere, who is an old flame from Assumption Parish.  In her book, there is a mild Hurricane and her husband and 4 y.o. old son gets stranded at a local supply shop, while she is left alone, at home, with Laballiere and they rekindle their missed passions.  Laballiere also has a wife and kids in Biloxi, Mississippi and it appears that his wife is also cheating on him!

Calixta could not be with Alcee because Alcee was from a noble Creole class and Calixta was from a more working class family and background.  Her writings must have taken so long to published because outside of Louisiana, people must not have been used to reading a woman talking about having sex and cheating on her husband in the 1800's. Either way, her books are very very good. 

Wikipedia-"

Kate Chopin (born Katherine O'Flaherty on February 8, 1850 – August 22, 1904) was an American author of short stories and novels, mostly of a Louisiana Creole background. She is now considered by some to have been a forerunner of feministauthors of the 20th century.

From 1869 to 1902, she wrote short stories for both children and adults which were published in such magazines as Atlantic Monthly, Vogue, the Century, and Harper's Youth's Companion. Her major works were two short story collections, Bayou Folk (1894) and A Night in Acadie (1897). Her important short stories included "Desiree's Baby," a tale of miscegenation in antebellum Louisiana (published in 1893);^[1] "The Story of an Hour" (1894),^[2] and "The Storm "(1898).^[1]"The Storm" is a sequel to "The 'Cadian Ball," which appeared in her first collection of short stories, Bayou Folk.^[1]

Chopin also wrote two novels: At Fault (1890) and The Awakening (1899), which is set in New Orleans and Grand Isle, respectively. The people in her stories are usually inhabitants of Louisiana. Many of her works are set about Natchitoches in north central Louisiana."

 

UNDERGROUND. by Nikki Vivian

UNDERGROUND

A STRANGE INTER-ETHNIC SHORT STORY-OF PASSION AND MYSTERY FROM THE MIND OF NIKKI VIVIAN.

"Sexy drumbeats at midnight

Ya fingers touching me light

Like

Sunrays on earth at sunrise

Your love shines in your eyes…"

Maxxee loved that song! Its beat seduced her memory, making her want to dance. She clenched her legs, eyeing the dark underground. She thought of the stranger’s eyes. Green dish bowls laden with curiosity. He wore a wedding ring. "Shit! I don’t believe in love at first sight anyway." Maxxee spied an old woman sitting across the car, watching her. "She knows what I feel. She’s staring at me, smiling. What’s funny? He’s married."

"Kirse’d be pissed if she knew what I was thinking. I can’t help it. She’s drawing me to her. She’s spinning a web around me. Her eyes are squeezing my throat, stealing my breath. I’ve never been attracted to a Black woman. This is new! Intense! I wonder if she’s ever been with a white guy. She’s nothing like Kirsten. My wife’s slim, great boobs, blond, leggy. Hell, everybody at the job wants to do Kirse. Yet here I am on a moving train, scoping a Black woman! For Pete’s sake, I’m on fire down here. Her eyes are so dark, so warm, moving over me like blind hands. I’m going closer…"

The train rumbled in the darkness. Bouncing roughly, it careened away from the bowels of the metropolis, carrying the city’s run-off from the lavish excess. Some foreigner remarked that it’s only peons that ride the subway in New York. The person standing next to you could be a millionaire. The subway disguises. It covers, hiding identity like a public war fought for independence cloaks private greed. The noise of the trains drowns out the cries against conformity. Once inside the machine, everyone is equal.

"He’s moving closer! Is he crazy?" Pause. Breathless. Fear. Hope. "Damn, he could be a serial killer or some shit like that." Maxxee moistened her lips, pressed them together, parted them slow. Her right eyebrow arched slightly. It always did when she became disconcerted, or aroused. Her eyes never left his as he closed the space between them. He finally stood in front of her, looking down.

Maxxee coolly glanced around, searching for rescue from this dilemma. There were people everywhere. In every seat someone laughed, read, slept. No one seemed to care that the white man crept closer. No one noticed except that strange smiling old lady. She never looked away. She just sat there staring intensely at Maxxee and the man, gripping her oversized purse. Maxxee pressed her hands deep into her lap. A small moan escaped her as she touched the bottom of the seat. She didn’t realize that as she moaned, her eyes were on his face.

Dillon exhaled, pushed her sack towards her, and sat down. His gaze never left her. "I’m married," he whispered.

Maxxee could only stare. She’d become a top, spinning and weaving. She felt free. A caught butterfly, released. Her spirit recognized him. "What?" she asked softly.

Dillon could see she was mystified. It didn’t occur to him that she could be afraid of him. No, he was too busy inhaling her scent. He was too occupied with her visual landscape, scenery so divine she must have been on earth by accident. "I said I’m married."
Dillon lifted his index finger and traced her eyebrows. He lingered over her right eye. Maxxee didn’t blink. She sat perfectly still as his finger arched from nose to cheek.

"Have we met before?" Dillon questioned, his hand now cruising through his own wheaty curls. "Déjà vu."

Maxxee found her breath. "Yes, déjà vu. You’re so familiar, and yet, it’s not possible." She reconsidered. "Well, anything’s possible, but…"

"It’s not possible for you to feel what you’re feeling, right? Not for a white boy like me?"

"Not for a white boy. It never crossed my mind. I stick to the brothers."

"Why? You don’t think my love is as good?"

"Don’t you? You married to a woman like me? Or are you hitched to ‘Barbie’?"

"Barbie." Flat. Dillon wondered at the lack of dimension in his response. Yes, Kirse was Barbie, and he was her Ken.

Maxxee watched his eyes narrow and cloud. She knew what he was thinking. Somehow, she was inside him, feeling his confusion, his love for his wife, and this incredible emptiness. "Why do you have this great chasm in you?" Maxxee put her hand on his, palm to skin. Her eyes searched his. "You have it all. You love your wife, house, job. You love your body, making love to your wife. Why the emptiness?"

Dillon mouth unhinged. How did she know? How did she know things about him? His sea glass eyes scanned the train. No one else seemed interested in their interaction, unusual for the subway. Wait. One person was watching, an odd-looking old lady with a bag two sizes bigger than her body. That’s not an uncommon subway sighting, but there was something unusual about her.

She had piercing grey eyes that did not waver. She looked like one of those old New Orleans quadroons in the family heirloom books he kept at home. She had black ringlet hair that escaped the tight cell of her red scarf. For some reason, he had to see her feet.

He aimed his view towards the floor. She wore the most horrific old shoes. They were soiled with mud, and pieces of rubber protruded from the soles. Dillon thought, "She’s been walking for a long time." Suddenly, he understood what he must do.

Maxxee observed the old woman, too. She and Dillon’s gazes joined forces in the inspection of the woman. Simultaneously, they saw her shoes. Then their eyes broke apart. Maxxee turned towards Dillon, pregnant with expectation.

Dillon caught her breath with his lips, firm yet soft. His tongue explored her depths, and she tasted him in a kiss. Nothing moved, no noise sounded. All that existed was the inhale exhale of time.

Maxxee allowed herself to submit. Dillon kissed her like she hadn’t been kissed in three lifetimes. She could feel Dillon pouring himself into her. She could feel pieces of herself entering him. They never closed their eyes.

Hands rested on their shoulders. The old woman was right behind them, grinning. Her eyes resembled molten slate, thunder with lightening highlights. Her lips never moved, but Maxxee and Dillon heard her speak. A slow Southern drawl commanded them to make love, demanded that love receive its due.

"Here on the train? What about these people?" Dillon looked around. Everyone was laughing, talking, reading.

Maxxee shook her head. She couldn’t have sex with this white man. She was not that type of woman. Who was this ancient hag?

The old woman spit lightly on her fingers. Reaching over to Dillon, she put those spitted fingers at the base of his throat, tracing a line from his chest to his navel. Dillon, first shocked, completely relaxed. He looked at her as if he were seeing her all over again. He reached for Maxxee, grasping her. In one swing he positioned her on his lap. She was nude. She started to scream. The old lady touched spitted fingers to Maxxee’s belly, just below her navel. Maxxee released herself. She wanted this.

They loved forcefully. Oblivious to the other passengers, they made love viciously, two souls long separated, reunited. Dillon entered Maxxee, felt himself grow and lift. He trembled as his empty caverns flooded with her warmth.

Maxxee clung to Dillon, moving with him, feeling no strain of the motion. She felt full of him and his need for her. She had never felt this needed. How delicious! Her head thrown back, Maxxee let Dillon ease her loneliness. She let him open the door to her spring. She wanted to feel love once more.

The train kept its speed in and out of broken darkness. The old lady watched Dillon and Maxxee, satisfied. Another piece of rubber loosened from the sole of her shoes. She paid no attention, only smiled. She viewed the other passengers who were unaware of the passion unfolding in their midst. The old lady sat motionless, fingers gripping the worn handles of her bag. She remembered.

It was my first quadroon ball in New Orleans. It’s where I first fell in love. Only it wasn’t with another Creole like me. No, chere. He was Allen Thibodeaux, the most handsome richest white man in all the South. How he swung me as we danced. How he took me after that, telling me I was the most beautiful girl. "Mademoiselle, you are one fabulous, wonderful creature. So beautiful, so very beautiful…" He said he wanted to take me away, to marry me. I believed him.

Instead, he married a girl from a rich white family. He returned to the balls, but I was no longer allowed to attend. I was pregnant.

Once he knew, he came to me. He put his head on my lap and knelt at my feet. "Anything you want, anything, ma cherie. You have only to speak it."

"Marry me," I said. "Leave her, and stay with me." Allen lifted his head. He spoke icily.

"I can not marry you. You are four steps removed from a nigger’s seed. Father would never stand for such a tainting on our name. He would disinherit me."

I slapped his face. He slapped me back, knocking me to the floor. He raped me. He took from me what I would no longer give. No one helped me though I screamed and fought. I was in disgrace because I had lost my virginity before there was a proper arrangement. Therefore, Allen was not obligated nor obliged to provide for me. He raped me, and no one cared.

The train jolted. Moans of Dillon and Maxxee came and went between the screams of the train. They clung together, skins damp. Maxxee’s head rested on Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon’s hands gripped Maxxee’s hips, lifting her, lowering her. The old lady sniffed the scent of ecstasy and rubbed her arms in the heady perfumed air. She thought on.

I was, alone, pregnant. Tanta sent me to see the priestess. She was supposed to relieve me of my baby. Nothing worked. The baby was strong and clung to me inside. Instead, my family paid the priestess to put a curse on Allen for his disregard. He knew the quadroon rules. No taste until the price was paid.

Suddenly, Allen began to send money. He arranged for a charming cottage for me and our child in the French Quarter. Once I was installed there, with a maid of my own, Allen visited me. He spoke of love. I took him to my bedroom. I’d been without a man for so long that he, in spite of his cruelty, was a welcome site. He gave me a beautiful antique ring to wear. Then he told me his wife died a week before he purchased my house. I did not ask how she died. I didn’t care. Allen was mine now.

When Allen’s father discovered me, he tried to force Allen to marry another white woman. Allen refused, saying that he’d had his fill of proper white girls and if he couldn’t marry me, he simply would not marry.

We shared one final night. When our lovemaking was over, we slept. Allen was still inside me. I heard a noise, and opened my eyes just in time to see a white hood leveling a pistol. I looked at Allen. He met my eyes, covering me with himself. I heard the blast. Then, nothing…

Small droplets fell from the old woman’s steel eyes. She sighed, removing the scarf from her head. Instantly, she was young again, and lovely. She watched as Dillon and Maxxee exploded in unison, a synchronized birthing. She watched as they struggled to breathe in their afterbirth. Their power made the blood surge faster through her veins. She gathered her things, and vanished.

Dillon stood, staring at the Black woman. His stop was next. Kirse would be waiting for him. Dillon thought, "As soon as I open the front door, I’m getting a piece of that." He looked down at his pants. Dry. How could that be when he just felt himself explode?

Maxxee turned away from Dillon. Her nipples shown hard through her silk blouse. "Who is he," she shakily asked herself. She reached for her sack and was shocked to see it on the floor. She slowly lifted it, glancing around the car. People were still doing people things. A cigar scented old man replaced the girl that had sat in front of her. She looked behind her. The old lady was gone. Maxxee gathered her sack. The next stop was hers.

Dillon moved towards the exit. Maxxee stood up and stepped in front of him. The car lurched forward, backward, then halted. Maxxee slammed into Dillon. Dillon put his hand intimately on her waist to steady her. At that moment, they both looked at the floor where the old woman had sat. There was a piece of old rubber. Dillon reached for it. It lay warm and flexible in his palm. Maxxee looked incredulously at the thing in Dillon’s hand. Dillon took Maxxee’s elbow and gently led her onto the platform.

Dillon peered deeply into Maxxee’s eyes. He saw her buttercream skin and curly black hair. He was speechless. His hand cradled her elbow, refusing to relinquish it.

"That was some train ride," was all Maxxee could think to say.

"Yes, it was." Dillon let go of Maxxee’s elbow, clearing his throat.

"Do I know you?" Maxxee hesitantly asked.

"Oh yeah, right. Name’s Dillon." He didn’t move.

"I’m Maxxee." The name rang no bells. She offered her hand. He squeezed it gently.

"Look, I don’t know what happened back there. It was weird, you know?"

"I know. Maybe we should return to the land of the living. My dog awaits me." Maxxee smiled.

"My wife…"

Maxxee began to walk away from him, legs shaky. She felt lonely again.

Dillon watched her leave, and the emptiness returned. He followed her. "Wait!" He caught her. "Listen, here’s my card. We need to talk. Call me." He held out his card, an offering. "Please."

Maxxee slid the card from his fingers. She raised her eyes from his hand. He kissed her lips, lingering. He turned and sprinted off.

Maxxee stood there, sack hanging limply. This strange white man had just kissed her on the subway platform. "Shit, I need a joint," she thought. She pocketed the card and left the platform. Once at street level, she removed the card. What was his name again? Maxxee held the card under a street lamp. She read the card twice. It read, "Dillon A.Thibodeaux, IV."

Maxxee removed her red scarf from her sack. She flung it around her face and neck, sashaying into the misty dampness of nightfall. She became a shadow, and was gone.

(NIKKI VIVIAN is a former resident of Plaquemines Parish,La-who now dwells in Manhattan -New York, Nikki Vivian can be reached at Joyqt@aol.com)