Herb Garden in the Window

He almost slipped, almost fell off the wagon five years ago. Honey Breaux, his sweet angel was losing weight, was bruising mysteriously. Whitney took the sixteen year old girl to Dr. Farbacher and he recommended an oncologist. Three days later, Whitney called Brian, sobbing and wailing.

Leukemia.

Brian sold his meticulously restored 1962 Chevy Impala, his coin collection, and finally, his house trailer. The girl hung on for almost a year.

Whitney had been of no help whatsoever. She had contributed nothing financially, emotionally, physically. Every time they took Honey to Women's and Children Hospital in Lafayette, Louisiana, Whitney acted as if she was the one suffering.

In the framed photograph, Honey looked gaunt, sick, even with the beautiful smile on her face. Heather also looked exhausted, but she too smiled.

Brian carefully put the photograph back in its place.

He'd seen Heather the other day. His supervisor and his supervisor's supervisor and he had gone to the Dead End Bar for Tuesday's smothered steak and rice and gravy plate lunch. It was a 'business lunch' as the three talked about the upcoming summer internship program at the Water and Sewer facility.

'Born to Be Wild' boomed out of the overhead speakers. But it was not the original; it was a cover version by the group Riot. Brian had pulled his head up from his plate of food; that had been one of his favorite version of that song. Honey and Heather had always squealed with delight whenever he played it and the three would dance as silly as they possibly could, playing air guitar, air drums.

Heather's long blonde hair hung down, nearly trailing the floor as she bounced. Then when the singer wailed the chorus, she whipped her long hair out, then let it wrap around herself.

"Damn, would love to just..." the supervisor's supervisor muttered, watching as Heather shrugged out of her leopard print top, revealing a faux leather bra holding her 34E breasts.

But in the photograph, Heather Ann Breaux wasn't a nineteen year old stripper. In the photograph, she was a sweet young lady, with her big sister, smiling for an unseen photographer.

Brian gave the photograph one more look and sad smile, then unplugged the vacuum cleaner. Putting the appliance away into the small closet, he checked his watch and determined that the heavy bedspread was probably just about finished with the rinse and spin cycle.

In the apartment's laundry room, Sandy lolled in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Brian was convinced now that the woman was on drugs; a line of drool trickled out the corner of her mouth. In her position, her skirt had risen and Brian could see her bald mound. Her inner lips hung out of her mound, meat curtains, one of his crew members called it.

He took the heavy bedspread out of the washing machine. Sandy roused when the lid clanged back down.

"Huh? What?" she asked, looking around.

"Oh, hey, how's it going?" she smiled vacantly at Brian.

"All right; you?" Brian asked as he fed the dryer some quarters. "Think your clothes are just about done."

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah," Sandy agreed and staggered over to the noisily whirring washing machine.

"See you," Brian said and left the stuffy, dank smelling room.

"Yeah, see you," Sandy agreed.

While Brian was in his room, checking the water and feed for Bonnie and Clyde, Carmen was in her apartment, fixing their lunch.

"God, want an herb garden like that Brian's got, she said. "Some fresh basil?"

She studied the kitchen window frame. She then looked at their larger window. Because they lived in a corner unit, they had not one, but two windows.

"How much you think one would cost?" she asked her brother.

"Want go ask him?" Philippe asked.

"You just want to go over there and fuck him again," Carmen playfully accused.

"Fuck yeah! Like you don't?" Philippe admitted.

THE END

**Author's Note: I write these stories for my pleasure and post them here for your enjoyment. I thank you for reading my stories.

I especially thank those that take the time to rate my stories and those that take time to leave comments.

A word about comments, though. This is THE END. Please do not leave comments saying you can't wait to see where they go from here. In most likelihood, they don't go anywhere from here.

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