Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Our neighbor begins to play Ain't Misbehavin' on his ivory keys. The notes seep on over into our living room. Paul begins to walk over to me humming along with the notes.  He reaches down and kisses my hand. He guides me upward, to stand before him. A hand finds my waist and the music moves our bodies.  My feet, sore from the weeks of parades and dancing. My stomach full or rich decadent food.  Formed by the Trinity, blessed in butter. My body held by the man that I love.

Today is Fat Tuesday in New Orleans. We haven't fully slept in over a month. What keeps us upright?  Tourist cash.  Swipe your plastic and hand over your bills, pay our rent in three hours.

Paul has had gigs throughout the weekend.  I've had non-stop waitressing shifts since Thursday.  Tomorrow, after Mass, we sleep.

I wear my white slip, the one I bought in Paris.  A tear can be seen in my stockings.  Bright red lipstick.  A foolish night before us. To go along with all the previous foolish nights. I slide my sore feet into heels and twirl to New Orleans Jazz.  Our neighbor finishes, I politely clap.  He picks up his trumpet to play an Al Hirt song.  He plays and my slip begins to slowly slide off. 

"The moonlight on the bayou

a Creole tune that fills the air

I dream about magnolias in bloom

and I'm wishin' I was there".