Papa pulled in front of Queen Zenobia’s Herb Garden and sat in his car a minute before getting out. He glanced down at the large piece of cake Veda left on the seat. He thought about Sweet.

He looked around, at the people smelling and touching the Queen’s herbs, watched them be fascinated at her ample garden. It was a real garden situated right in the heart of the concrete jungle. It was run by Zenobia and Honeysuckle James. They were West Indian transplants who spoke patois only to each other and sold every type of fresh herb you could think of. Thyme, mint, coriander, marijuana, peyote, black cohosh, rose hips, oregano, anise…

Honeysuckle was Zenobia’s daughter and was a stand-out creature. The more you looked at her the more attractive she became. She was what one would call exotic looking, not ugly, but strikingly different. She was black, the darkest coal black. Honeysuckle was tall and slim, not bony though. Her facial features were prominent, a chiseled map of abrupt features that could catch you by surprise if you glanced her way. She wore shoes only under duress, ate with her hands and chewed licorice root.

She walked toward the car and looked through the passenger window. She motioned for Lou to get out. “Hey Papa, fancy seein’ you around here,” she said flirtatiously watching his every move. “We delivered the last of your order this mornin’, the place looks nice.”

“That ain’t why I’m here,” he said soberly, back against the side of his car.

“Oh. Well, what is it that I can do for you?” She moved within an inch of Papa’s face.

“I can’t see you no more.”

“What? What the fuck do you mean you can’t see me?”

“Just what I said Honey, now, I need you to understand my family is here and I don’t want no trouble outcha.”

“Trouble? I wasn’t no trouble when you was traipsin’ your ass up here from New-York-City.”

Honeysuckle and Papa Lou were never really an item. But on his trips to the Midwest she was who he spent most of his leisure time with. Honeysuckle was tough, hard even. She had a jealous streak so electric that she made it hard for a man like Papa Lou to do simple things like, breathe. Bo had introduced them noting that if he was trying to sell the best tea this side of the Great Lakes then Honey was the person to get it from.

Honeysuckle was the only other soul Queen allowed around her precious herbs. She had seen, tasted and become relatively familiar with every kind of foliage. A short glimpse could prescribe a particular herb for a particular purpose.

Seeing her now made Papa reminisce about when they first met. It was fall and the way she looked at him, through him, made his body burn. His temperature rose inexplicably. She said something to him in a dialect so strange that he could only look at her in amazement. She’d say again and again what he soon learned was, “What’choo be needin’ remedies for man?” Queen Zenobia would be her translator.

Queen would say, “Slow down now chile, ‘long road from dem swamps, ya ‘eer?”

Honeysuckle was standoffish at first. She did not like Papa Lou; really she did but was so embarrassed by their first encounter that she thought it impossible to acknowledge her attraction. Papa Lou didn’t care, not one bit. He liked her, gave a gallant effort at melting the ice she wore as skin. Queen Zenobia tried to warn him about his new found interest saying in a thick West Indian tongue, “G’won be careful now chile, be careful who ya ask for what.”

But Papa was taken by her mystique, was fascinated by the ink coursing through her veins, by what could have possibly fashioned her midnight hue. He’d never seen a woman so black nor legs so bowed. He found himself at that herb garden every time he visited Detroit and it wasn’t just to purchase tea leaves for Sweet. He liked watching her barter her way through Queen’s garden, she was an excellent negotiator who could count money faster than he could.

“Honey, I’m tellin’ you for your own good, I don’t want no shit.”

“What’choo scared? Scared she gon’ leave you when she find out about me?”

“Naw, that ain’t it. She know about’choo.”

Honeysuckle was stunned, taken aback even. She had underestimated Papa Lou. Had assumed that he was like all the others—some secret harboring thug done good. But Lou and Sweet had an understanding, the type that other folk didn’t understand. They were a team and had decided long ago never to let anything or anyone come between them. Sweet always made Lou feel at ease enough to tell her anything, the worst of things. And as long as he told the truth, she would never hold it against him.

Papa had had flings before, always and only on trips out of town. He was the type of man who just couldn’t sleep alone. Sweet knew this about him from the time they met, it was the one concession she allowed as long as he didn’t fall in love or get attached. That was their thing and it worked for them.

“Look. I love my wife and she here now.”

“You used me.”

“We used each other,” as Papa turned to get in his car, she hawked a glob of phlegm toward his back, it hit the car’s shiny paint.

“You missed.” And he drove off.