Page 177 of Scars Like Wings

“Have you ever seen one in the wild?”

“There is literally an organization dedicated to them.”

“Dedicated to theirlies. “

I shook my head and popped another bite into my mouth. “Okay, what else?”

“Pigeons.”

“Well, everyone knows those are government birds. They are walking cameras.”

“See? I’m notthatcrazy, now am I? I mean, have you ever seen a baby pigeon? Has anyone?”

“Nope, definitely not.”

Quinn stirred the garlic to brown it. “I also think that the air dryers in bathrooms are harbingers of the plague.”

“Again, breaking here: you can stab someone without batting an eye, but trying to conserve the environment by not using paper towels is the line for you?”

“I don’t know about you, but I would rather disembowel ten men than have poopy air blown back on me. Pink eye is gross, okay?”

I threw my head back and cackled. I could listen to every single one of her silly goose thoughts all day. Even if they were insane, I loved her passion and seeing the destinations her mind could reach as it ran a million miles a minute. She talked about her celebrity theories and how much worse even her dad was with thinking that air fryers weren’t real because when has the air even fried something? It was cute seeing what got her going.

Quinn poured the tomato sauce into the dutch oven along with the noodles and garlic that she had browned. She stirred in a few cubes of chicken bouillon seasoning and some water and allowed that to simmer. Quinn started a flat pan on another burner. She paused in our conversation, starting to season some butter to spread on the bread.

Suddenly, she asked. “Do you think your mom would have liked me? Like, seriously?”

I chewed my bite of charcuterie thoughtfully so I could answer as honestly as I could. “Well, my dad certainly would have. He was easier on the girls I liked than mom was. I came out to them at a young age and would let them know when I was bringing a girl home and when I wasbringinga girl home. Pops was sweet and would dote on them. But my mom? She became a fucking detective and wanted to know everything about them, what their intentions were, and how they treated their own mom. She was kinda batshit, honestly. My Aunt Max would usually egg her on. She always said I was too soft and sweet, like an angel food cake. She said I would crumble if the right person was actually mean to me. My mom used to say she was wrong,that there is strength in being soft. Honey attracts more flies than vinegar.”

“Your mom sounds very smart.”

“You have no idea. But she could be easily bribed using dessert, though. Make her a cheesecake, and she would adore you!”

Quinn laughed, and I joined in.

“I wish you could have met them.” I smiled nostalgically.

“Me too.”

The house smelled like a Taqueria by the time Quinn was done cooking. It was well-worth the wait. The soup and the sandwich were the best I had ever had, bursting with flavor across the board. We decided to watch a competition cooking show instead of a movie because we didn’t want to think anymore and wanted our brains turned off. We made quips and admired the food, but we mostly chilled and enjoyed the presence of each other.

After eating lunch, putting the leftovers away, and cleaning up the kitchen, I laid against Quinn’s chest, her arm wrapped around me holding me close. She curled her fingers around my locs, looking at the pink entangled around her finger. Her touch was so gentle, tender, and deliberate, I felt shivers down my spine.

“When’s the last time you had a retwist, sweetness?” Quinn asked, touching my overgrown roots and trying to view my scalp.

I turned around with my eyebrows raised toward my edges. “Ma’am, what do you know about retwisting locs?”

Quinn laughed. “I date black women, remember? You don’t think I’ve picked up a thing or two?”

“Taking out braids or straightening hair has nothing to do with locs.”

“Oh, now, I have to prove a point.” Quinn took me up in her arms and lifted me off the couch. I squealed in surprise. “Bathroom?”

I pointed Quinn to my bathroom. Once inside, she sat me down on the counter to start the water in the soaker tub. She poured in some bubble bath wash and a few bath bombs. The scent of both filled the bathroom with the smell of tropical fruits. I had forgotten I had bought those. “Hair products?”

I pointed to my wash day bin on the counter near me. Quinn grabbed it and sat it within reach of the tub. Once the water was ready, she turned the faucet and started to undress.

My jaw dropped. Quinn raised her slitted eyebrow. “Do you want me to get my clothes wet?”

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