Spicy Little Curses

by J.T. Geissinger

“I’m writing a piece about New Orleans’s urban legends. Your name keeps coming up.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his broad chest, causing the seams of his white T-shirt to strain their limits. “Does it now?” he drawled. “Can’t imagine why.”

“An artist whose own skin is covered in tattoos that aren’t made of ink . . . because he was born with them.”

What’s your cat’s name?” “Luce.” “As in Lucy?” “No, as in Lucifer. Don’t pet her, she’s allergic to people. And I do mind. Like I said, Petra, we’re closed.”

“All you’ll find here is a guy who wants to be left alone.” “Nice sidestep.” “It wasn’t a sidestep.” “I can tell you’re purposely being evasive.” “And you’re purposely being a pain in my ass,” I growled.

She was making me smile? This was a fucking disaster. I had to get rid of her. Now.

“I am hearing you. I’m just not listening. Oh hey, there’s the freaky devil cat! Hi, Satan!” 29 “It’s Lucifer,” I said through gritted teeth, watching as Luce wound around Petra’s ankles, purring up a storm.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said sourly, watching my face. “But I’m not that heartless.”