The Deep

In the sweltering air of a Honfleur summer, a person had three options for a cold treat: A beer from Croc's, an iced coffee from Homespun, or ice cream from Scoops. The latter was a seasonal business. Though it opened in early May, Abbey was convinced she'd already gained 5 pounds on mint chocolate chip. As she licked a double cone and stuffed change in her pocket, she wondered where these calories would settle. Please be tits, she prayed, knowing most likely it would be ass.

This was her night off. No swamp tours to give, no pool hall challenges to answer. Just a single gal strolling around the neighborhood, later to veg on the couch. Pretty boring, but Abbey didn't feel like firing off desperate texts. If nobody answered, she'd just get pathetic and try to drown her sorrows in a margarita, but she knew from personal experience that ice cream and Jose Cuervo didn't mix.

A rare night breeze tore the napkins from her hand. "Ah shit..." She hurried after the white squares, even as they blew behind the building. Scoops perched on a curve in Elbow Road. Behind the umbrella-covered picnic tables, the property turned into shaggy grass and then marsh that transitioned into open water. She snatched up one napkin and let the other get away. She wasn't stepping on a snake just to save the planet. But she stood in the dark anyway, craning her neck to see if the chili pepper lights strung around her houseboat were visible from here.

Thread: Open to Nalia

GW leaned back in his seat near the stage and took a small swig of his beer. For a change he wasn’t the one up on stage performing, and the Cajun had come to this hole in the wall Blues joint in Westwego to kick back and relax and let other people entertain him instead. The place was close enough to Honfluer that he could literally walk back to his houseboat if he got too buzzed to drive. Granted, it would be a long walk, but he’d had his share of those before. It was a warm night and he was dressed for the weather in faded khaki shorts and blue polo shirt, sandals on his otherwise bare feet.

It was amateur night at the bar, but the group of musicians playing were talented and seemed to know what they were doing. He tapped his foot along to the beat and soaked up the atmosphere of the bar, which was just crowded enough to keep the waitstaff busy without packing customers in like sardines.

The bar was called Shades of Blue. It brought in professional musicians from the region and on its amateur night, locals could submit selections of music for the band to play and perform live, a step above karaoke machines and awkward last-minute picks. Hazel Moreau liked to go there for the rich menu of bottled beers. Sometimes she listened, a cigarette between her fingers and cheek in her palm. Sometimes she sang. Tonight she had chosen a classic by Mamie Jones called Crazy Blues.

( Sit Here )