me think of how I felt inside on my most tired days.
“How hungry are you?” He glanced over at me. “Would you mind if we popped in here for a second? Or like ten minutes?”
“I’ve got time. Kreyol’s always has interesting pieces. I wouldn’t mind looking around.”
“Cool, let’s do it.”
Air conditioning met us as we stepped in, and Keisha, the owner, looked up and smiled. She was my mom’s age and looked exactly like you’d expect an art gallery owner to look, her hair bound up in a colorful orange and red scarf, long gold earrings dangling from her ears, a sleeveless dress made from Ankara fabric skimming her large body. Keisha was always big smiles and even bigger splashes of color.
“Hey, baby,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“I know. Since Miss Mary’s goodbye?”
“Yeah, that’s about right. Been even longer since you were in here. It’s good to see you.”
“Miss Keisha, this is Miles. He took over Miss Mary’s place.”
She cocked her head at him. “Jazz club? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. We got some weekend music places around here, but it’ll be good to have some for every night. Welcome. Y’all go on and look around. Got some new pieces.”
“I’d love some advice on pieces I could put in the club,” Miles said. “I want to feature local artists.”
Keisha’s smile grew even bigger. “You came to the right place. Wander, see what you like, and we’ll start talking. If I don’t have what you want, I know where to find it.”
Her place was small, and it took all of ten minutes to look at everything, even pausing here and there for Miles to comment when pieces caught his eye.
“What do you think?” she asked as we circled back to the front of the gallery. “Anyone or anything jump out at you?”
“My two favorite paintings were by the same guy. Elijah Remy?”
Miss Keisha smiled. “Yeah. He’s good. He’s from right here in the Bywater. He’s mostly a muralist, but he works in acrylics sometimes, and I always snap those up. Tell you what, you come back when you got some time on your hands, and we’ll look at more of his work together. I can even tell you where to find some of his murals if you want to see them in the wild.”
“That sounds great,” he said. “Thank you.”
We waved goodbye and walked the last two blocks to Frady’s, discussing the pieces we’d seen. It had been a long time since we’d talked about anything but the club, I realized.
“Maybe I don’t want paintings for the club,” Miles concluded. “Maybe I need murals, something that speaks to the soul of music.” I smothered a smile, but Miles caught it. “What’s so funny?”
“You. But not funny, exactly.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to think about what had made me smile as I pushed open the door. “The way you’re so into the art and the club. It’s...cute.” It was the safest word I could think of to describe the feeling of listening to Miles do a monologue on stuff he cared about deeply.
“Cute? I think...I’m offended?”
“Fair,” I said. “I’d probably be offended if someone said my passion for my work was cute.”
“Then pick a different word,” he said, a half-smile on his face. “I don’t want to be cute.”
I could think of two words: dead sexy. His passion for his work was dead sexy. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud. “How about admirable?”
“Stuffy. Like I graduated from being a dumb puppy to an antique sofa.”
“Let’s go with ‘relatable.’ I find the way you think about things relatable.”
“Relatable,” he mused. “I dig it.”
We ordered our sandwiches and wandered back down Dauphine but on the other side. I knew the Bywater like the back of my hand, but in the same way you sometimes forget you have a freckle or birthmark until someone else points it out, it was a slightly different experience seeing it through Miles’s eyes. It wasn’t like he was commenting on everything he saw, but even the places he’d pause or let his eyes linger brought them to my attention in ways I didn’t notice on my own.
He stopped in front of a pink house with magenta trim with a hand-painted sign in the front window showing a palm and offering other psychic services including séances.
“There’s places like this all over Venice Beach,” he said. “Do you think they’re more accurate here?”
“Palm readers? Why would they be more accurate here?”
He shrugged. “I