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Deep in summer. New Orleans was sweltering.
It was late July, and the streets sizzled and hummed with heated bodies, slick collarbones and thin clothing. Everyone fanned themselves and when they weren't fanning themselves they were standing in front of buzzing floor fans, the strings tied to the rungs tickling the backs of their knees. Jackson Square held no fans, just these barred fences that once held black men and women's dismembered limbs like Christmas lights, and isntead of their bodies hanging by nooses, it was simply flowers and statues and draping trees.
Bent over the sketchbook, his ass planted in the grass and his back against one of the short, stone walls, he could smell the Mississippi from here. The equestrian statue could be seen from his spot on the ground, as well as the square bushes and slight people, complaining about their armpit sweat and the sticky air. Adrian's own auburn locks were starting to stick at his neck, and the hair-tye around his thin wrist was put to use, and scooping the waving, dry piece off his neck and back, he was tugging the elastic around it, securing it in place on the back of his head.
Despite the heat, his legs were in slim jeans and his shirt was ruined, once Pink Floyd or Kiss, it was now torn at the collar and stretched at the sleeves, loose enough with the thin tank top underneath that the maybe curves of his body were hidden from sight, and his long hair and Christ-era sandals, anyone could have mistaken him for a girl.
New Orleans was stuck in the summer. Even when it was muggy and raining the heat still attached to your skin like leeches. Adrian's shirt was stuck to his shoulderblades, and his pencil felt hot between his long fingers, and the military jacket he'd been sketching didn't seem as fitting anymore, not with the erected statue of a bucking horse and the tourists crowding around it, snapping their flash photography and wearing their souvenier shop French Quarter t-shirts. With his chin resting in his hand and his pencil stilled on the thick paper, Adrian's blue eyes stared.
He saw greens and pinks, flowers and grass and bushes and large straw hats that the native Orleanians wore, their dark skin leathery as they wafted their fans against their near coal skin and how they frequented shops where they lived. Their apartment was common here in New Orleans, a loft atop some furniture store that sold questionable things in the back. Their entrance was commonly the fire escape that led into Denver's room, Adrians supposed friend that stripped off his pants and underwear for bikers and bears who always commented on his dyed, cherry red hair. Adrian just told him he looked like a fool.
From his spot on the ground, he heard bells chime and birds flutter, and looking up, Saint Louis Cathedral was tolling out the time. Two PM on a Thursday afternoon, Denver wouldn't be up for another few hours until he shaved every part of his body, put on questionable clothing, went to work and spun around a pole to pay their pathetic rent. And all Adrian did was sit here and think about his scholarship, the full ride to Parson's of New York, and draw another pair of pants.
It was late July, and the streets sizzled and hummed with heated bodies, slick collarbones and thin clothing. Everyone fanned themselves and when they weren't fanning themselves they were standing in front of buzzing floor fans, the strings tied to the rungs tickling the backs of their knees. Jackson Square held no fans, just these barred fences that once held black men and women's dismembered limbs like Christmas lights, and isntead of their bodies hanging by nooses, it was simply flowers and statues and draping trees.
Bent over the sketchbook, his ass planted in the grass and his back against one of the short, stone walls, he could smell the Mississippi from here. The equestrian statue could be seen from his spot on the ground, as well as the square bushes and slight people, complaining about their armpit sweat and the sticky air. Adrian's own auburn locks were starting to stick at his neck, and the hair-tye around his thin wrist was put to use, and scooping the waving, dry piece off his neck and back, he was tugging the elastic around it, securing it in place on the back of his head.
Despite the heat, his legs were in slim jeans and his shirt was ruined, once Pink Floyd or Kiss, it was now torn at the collar and stretched at the sleeves, loose enough with the thin tank top underneath that the maybe curves of his body were hidden from sight, and his long hair and Christ-era sandals, anyone could have mistaken him for a girl.
New Orleans was stuck in the summer. Even when it was muggy and raining the heat still attached to your skin like leeches. Adrian's shirt was stuck to his shoulderblades, and his pencil felt hot between his long fingers, and the military jacket he'd been sketching didn't seem as fitting anymore, not with the erected statue of a bucking horse and the tourists crowding around it, snapping their flash photography and wearing their souvenier shop French Quarter t-shirts. With his chin resting in his hand and his pencil stilled on the thick paper, Adrian's blue eyes stared.
He saw greens and pinks, flowers and grass and bushes and large straw hats that the native Orleanians wore, their dark skin leathery as they wafted their fans against their near coal skin and how they frequented shops where they lived. Their apartment was common here in New Orleans, a loft atop some furniture store that sold questionable things in the back. Their entrance was commonly the fire escape that led into Denver's room, Adrians supposed friend that stripped off his pants and underwear for bikers and bears who always commented on his dyed, cherry red hair. Adrian just told him he looked like a fool.
From his spot on the ground, he heard bells chime and birds flutter, and looking up, Saint Louis Cathedral was tolling out the time. Two PM on a Thursday afternoon, Denver wouldn't be up for another few hours until he shaved every part of his body, put on questionable clothing, went to work and spun around a pole to pay their pathetic rent. And all Adrian did was sit here and think about his scholarship, the full ride to Parson's of New York, and draw another pair of pants.
