Behind the Palmettos

Flash Fiction

Gas light in my backyard

Behind the Palmettos

Walking down Delaronde, we swatted mosquitoes and pressed our tank tops between our boobs to sop up the sweat. It didn’t do much good, though, so sometimes we just let it trickle down our bellies and soak into our shorts. It was a smothering evening as we stumbled along under 200 year old Oak trees that upended the sidewalk with their gnarly root eruptions. The Cokes we bought at the corner store turned warm as dirty dish water after five minutes outside. The breeze from the river rustled in the palm trees but it passed over our heads because we were low, low - lower than the levee.

We stopped when we heard murmurs and laughter coming from a big house surrounded by black wrought iron fencing woven with plumbago. Peeking through the palmettos, we could see a pristine white gallery up in the trees where a couple lazed, arms and legs intertwined. They held fancy tall glasses of something fizzy as they swung under a ceiling fan, well above the mosquitoes chomping on our flesh. French doors leading into the house were open and we could hear Jon Batiste singing “Butterfly” wafting out. The man began kissing the woman’s shoulder and on down her arm just like you read about in romance novels. Her head was tilted back showing a neck as long as a heron’s, twinkly earrings junebugging with each kiss, and her back was arched lifting her boobs up like the tree roots under us trying to break free. We looked at each other, eyes wide and hands covering giggles.

Sweat was running a river down my belly now and I was feeling itchy but it wasn’t mosquitos doing it this time. When he got to her fingers, he kissed each one before moving her hand to where we couldn’t see, then gave her a long, long kiss on the lips. Our giggles escaped our hands then, maybe a little too loud because they got up and went into the room where we saw the woman’s filmy white dress fall off her shoulders onto the floor. The man turned and just before he closed the doors, he looked our way and winked. Just then the Natchez blew her whistle and we jumped like scalded dogs and ran, the whistle chasing us like a double agent.