Free The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen Page B

table.
    I sipped my coffee then—the rising steam a comfort to my red eyes—and delighted in that unmistakably earthy taste of chicory. Meanwhile, Mark’s mouth was already full of dough. White powder coated his lips and fingertips after only one bite. He looked adorable.
    â€œHave one,” he said, pushing the plate toward me. “Nothing has the power to cheer you up like a big dose of fat and sugar.”
    Unfortunately, there is no ladylike way to eat a beignet, so I held the mass of warm dough and watched the powdered sugar dangle at the edge, preparing to sprinkle my black dress with Café Du Monde fairy dust. The napkins were so small, I would have had to use twenty of them to protect my lap. With my head positioned above the plate, I brought the beignet to my lips, and I ate the whole thing that way, shoulders curved, chin up. But the powder, miraculously, still sprinkled the front of my dress. I dabbed the spots with water, but the sugar seemed imbedded in the black silk. My rubbing had turned the smudges into splotches.
    â€œI think my dress is ruined,” I said after exhausting all efforts.
    Mark tossed me a playful wink. “So you’ll take it off.”
    We didn’t say more about my father. I think Mark sensed I was emotionally drained from the conversation. Instead, we ate and we drank, listened to the saxophonist, enjoyed the ambiance of the café, the high ceiling and twirling fans, the cup and saucer clinks, the noisy chatter of people out in the wee hours of the morning.
    When we finally left the café, we had to pass the college students and the transvestite and the origami artist but first, the woman and her notebook. She lifted her eyes as we went by, but I could not look into them. I feared they’d remind me too much of my mother’s, of the guilt I’d somehow escaped in my affection for Mark. I saw only the corners of her mouth turn down, her head shaking.
    â€œTsk, tsk,” I thought I heard her say under the café murmurs and clanking dishes.
    Or had she said mistress ?
    Once on Decatur Street, I tried to concentrate on the night sky, on the spires of St. Louis Cathedral aiming for the stars. But I lost the image. The woman’s disgust was all I could see. I rubbed the front of my dress once more.
    â€œThere’s no use.” Mark reached around my waist. “What’s done is done.”
    I knew it would wash out. I knew no one would see it that time of night. But until we reached the hotel room, I kept my hands before me, hiding the powdered sugar stains on the front of my dress: the letter A the woman from the café had placed there with one hard look.
    I opened my eyes to a dark hotel room. The heavy curtains worked so well, I didn’t know if it was morning or the afternoon of the following day. But soon, I saw a thin stream of hazy early light where the curtain met the wall.
    Mark was still asleep on his stomach, his arm curled over the pillow. The position revealed his muscular arms and toned obliques. I wanted to slide my arm around his waist and kiss him softly on the shoulder, not only for how handsome he looked in slumber, but also for breaking the ice about my father. How could I repay him for his kindness at the café? He’d been so sweet, so strong. He’d seen through my facade. He’d asked the hard questions. He’d listened. How could I wonder if he loved me? Was that not evident in his actions?
    I decided not to wake him and instead, slipped out of bed. I’d fallen asleep reading Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own . The book, my alternative to sleeping pills, was still in bed with me, and I placed it on the nightstand. And that’s when I thought of Leonard Woolf.
    From my research, I knew Virginia Woolf’s husband had been equally as kind, caring for her during the bouts of depression and nervous breakdowns that inevitably followed her completion of a novel. Leonard had