Paint the Town

It began like any other Saturday night. I was curled up on the sofa watching documentaries, sending texts back and forward with my old college roommate Sherry in Akron. She often told me that I needed to get out and explore this new city. Tonight, she was particularly pushy.

It's been six months since I moved to New Orleans, Louisiana for a job opportunity in the education field. And in six months I've done nothing but scope out grocery stores. The nightlife was a mystery to me. So was the dating pool. Sherry suggested several dating apps, some of which had undisclosed contracts of an agreement to intercourse upon matching. No thank you.

She brought up something new that night. An app called Locale. Ready to dismiss it, I asked if it was another dating app. She said no, and went on to explain how it worked. The app uses your location to show you parties and events near you. The first red flag for me was giving consent to access my location at all times. When in use, your location cannot be turned off. The main function of the app is a social media experience. Using your location, the app remembers where you take pictures, so the photos on your page constantly change depending on where you are. I said why not. We use different apps to talk to the same people anyway. I downloaded it and searched for events. Each gathering had crowd emojis next to them to display the attendance. The more emojis, the bigger the crowd. I hope they're all wearing masks.

At the very bottom of the list was an art show near the French Quarter called Merlot Rouge. No crowd emojis. Perfect, I thought. I can enjoy some art without all the people. I get dressed and call an Uber.

I texted Sherry as soon as I made it to the location. She suggested I use Locale to take a selfie outside the building to keep track of me. I did so.

I walked inside and it was just as I expected. Empty, but the art hanged on the walls as if it'd been a grand opening. I examine the pieces. The color choices, the brush strokes.

Amazing, I said to myself.

I walked around to the last painting, and there he was. Standing there. Staring at his creation on the wall. He hadn't noticed me as I approached him. I cleared my throat. He turned to me, his dreadlocks whipping.

"Good evening, Ms..."

The bass in his voice sends a small tremor into my stomach. He was tall. His hair matted into long, thick, raven-black dreadlocks. The free-formed kind, but clean. His eyes were like emeralds and his skin glowed like rich caramel.

"I got hand sanitizer if you want some."

I stared a moment too long. I hadn't noticed his hand was extended. I shook it.

"I'm Jill."

"Yuri." He smiled.

"Nice to meet you, Yuri. So, seen the artist around?"

"I have actually. I see him every day."

I knew it, but I played along, anyway.

"You're the artist? Where are all of your fans?"

His sunny demeanor dimmed. "Looks like I don't have any."

That's hard to believe, I thought. Before I could investigate, he lit up again.

"You may be my only fan. Would you like the VIP tour?" He extended his long, toned arm out to his compiled artwork.

"Sure."

We walked over to the beginning of the exhibit. On the wall, greeting you at the door was a fluorescent painting of a city street. The color choices were green, purple, and gold. A signature Mardi Gras theme.

The next one was a depiction of a second-line band made up of four men: A trumpet player, tuba, bass drummer, and snare. There was a crowd of people dancing around them.

We finally came to the painting I found him in front of. It depicted a woman with long raven-black hair. Her eyes, her skin. It looked like Yuri. In her hand, a glass of red wine. This one felt different from the upbeat New Orleans culture he had captured in his previous works. This one was sad.

"She's beautiful. Who is she?"

He looked upon his work fondly. "My mother. I call it Merlot Rouge."

"Interesting." I took the time to appreciate it. She was seated at a table under a flower arch filled with white magnolias. Her hand clasping the glass of deep crimson. She looked like a saint. My curiosity took over.

"Tell me about her?"

"Her name was Yasmine."

"Was?"

"She passed when I was young. She was also a painter. I dedicate this to her so that she be immortalized."

That face again.

"Well, that's all I have. What do you think?"

It was wonderful! Some of the best art I've ever seen. I had to contain my overzealous praise. "I like it. You're talented."

He smiled.

"Well, it's getting late. I enjoyed myself..."

"I still got the place for another hour. Can you stay?"

"I don't know..."

"Please?"

I didn't have to think about it, but I took the time out anyway. "Okay, then."

"You hungry?" He asked.

We sat in the middle of the exhibit at a makeshift table made out of crates and a plywood sheet. He ordered from a creole kitchen; fried catfish, crawfish gumbo, and potato salad steamed before us. I did my happy dance as I bit a piece of the fish. But the question remained.

"Why didn't anyone come?"

He shrugged. "It's my first time putting myself out there. Maybe people don't want to see a no-name. Maybe because of the pandemic."

He flipped his long locks to the back. His pectorals squeezed through his thin shirt. Was he chiseled from marble?

"I don't see why the pandemic might affect it. I found your event on Locale, along with other events that seemed to be crowded."

"I used my stimulus payment to promote myself and secure the building tonight, hoping to get some exposure."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't a total waste. I got to make a new friend."

I had to look away with that smile. I'm a dark-skinned girl, but I could feel my cheeks burning red.

"We've talked about me enough. I want to know about you, Jill?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Where are you from? Can't be from here."

"Is it that obvious?"

"I can tell by the way you ate that gumbo. You really enjoyed it."

We both shared a laugh.

"I'm from Akron, Ohio. I moved here less than a year ago to teach."

"Impressive." He nodded. "Since I was never a scholar, I always held admiration for people who excelled in academics ."

I could say the same about artists.

"Thank you. I enjoy my work."

"Yuri..." A man interjected.

We turned to the door where a man stood tapping his watch.

"Oh, it's that time," Yuri said rising from the table.

"I'll be locking up in fifteen." The man said leaving.

I helped him take his paintings off the wall and clean up. 11:00 p.m. came and we were standing outside the locked-down building. All his creation slung over his back in tubes. I had a few notifications from Sherry. She was curious about my whereabouts; the same selfie I'd taken outside the building was still up after hours. I assured her I was fine.

"How are you getting home?" Yuri asked.

"I'll just Uber. You?"

"I'm waiting for a friend." His eyes were fixed on me. "Can I see you again? Show you around?"

"Sure. I'd like that."

"Good. How about now?"

"Now?" I asked taken by surprise.

"The days are too long and the nights too short. We still have moon left." He held his hand out to me.

I thought for a moment. Those green eyes. They were innocent. I placed my hand in his; his palm large enough to overshadow mine.

An old van pulled up from the depths of the street and parked beside us. Yuri opened the sliding door with me still in his grip. I ejected my hand and backed away. He looked surprised at me. It dawned on him.

"Wait!" He said.

He threw his art in the back of the van and spoke to the driver. The driver nodded and drove off.

"I'm sorry." He said approaching me. He knew how it looked.

My heart was pounding. "Who was that?"

"My ride. I told him to hold on to my stuff for me."

I take a deep breath. He comes closer.

"I'm sorry."

I started laughing. He laughed with me.

"It's okay. So, lead the way."

We walked a few blocks over to Bourbon Street. This was the first place on my list when I eventually decided to venture out, and I could see why it was the main attraction in New Orleans. Bands playing in the street. People dancing under the neon lights, the thick aroma of boiled crawfish lingering about. I knew I'd just ate, but I had to have some of that boiled crawfish.

We took our food to the French Quarter another block or so away. We sat at a table outside a closed restaurant. The sign read: Cafe Du Monde. I've also heard of this place. It looked familiar, too.

We talked, laughed, and then he asked me.

"Will you come home with me?"

I didn't look him in the eyes. Those green eyes were magic. "I don't know. It's too soon."

"You're right. I'm being too forward. I just don't want it to end yet."

At that moment I realized why the scenery looked so familiar. The painting, Merlot Rouge, we were sitting under the same flower arch filled with white magnolias. We were where his mother once was.

"Me either."

We Ubered to the warehouse district. Yuri lived in a studio apartment atop one of the buildings. An apt place for him. Once inside, I noticed how open-ended it was. He had all his art and belongings in one corner, including his bed. He put on 90s R&B. Keith Sweat, Brian Mcknight, Maxwell. He handed me a glass of Merlot and sat next to me.

"A toast?"

"To what?" I smiled.

"To new friendships."

We touched glasses.

After a bottle and a half, we were in his bed. There was intimacy, but no penetration. We just lay in the dark, tangled up in one another. I could smell coconut oil and the subtle scent of the rosewater he'd washed his dreadlocks with. The stubble on his face was prickly to the touch. A kiss on my forehead. Stillness. He was out. I felt safe in his arms and allowed myself to follow him.

I was sitting in front of the computer teaching my 5th-grade class via Zoom. It's been a week since that night and I haven't heard from Yuri. I found his profile on Locale through the events visited tab. I'd check it in between classes. No photos on his page. This meant that his location wasn't around anyplace he took pictures. I left him my number. Why hasn't he called? Texted? Was there something I did wrong? Was I not good enough? Sherry said it could've been because I didn't put out, but he didn't seem like the type to worry about that.

I gave in to the urge to check his Locale one last time. A picture! It was a selfie of him smiling across the street from a building. My building!

I rushed downstairs from the fourth floor and blasted through the doors outside. His dreadlocks whipped as he turned to me. He led with a bouquet of white magnolias. We embraced. Kissed.

"Where have you been?"

"Trying desperately to recreate your beauty. Will you be my muse?"