Post by goldenmyst on Jun 26, 2019 11:01:23 GMT -6
A New Orleans State of Mind
My gait has a new liveliness which can only be that of the groom for my bride. My legs carry me to the baggage compartment of the bus which took her from Natchez to New Orleans. I made the trip ahead of her to scout out living quarters. With each disembarkee, my heart beats like a drum roll for my Marsha.
Like a sunrise over summer in Bordeaux, she emerges from the bus carrying her only luggage which was stowed away in the overhead storage. I try to take it from her hands. She says, “Really John, it is light enough even for a woman whose name is frailty.” But when she enters our apartment I will dress her up like a woman from the baroque era but at a Mardi Gras Ball. And in her freedom, she will be liberated from Mississippian customs which bind like an ill-fitted corset. With a half smile, she undoes her ponytail and lets her hair fall like spring rain down her shoulders.
She carries her travel bag with ease which even a fool such as I can’t mistake for masculinity. I refrain from touching her out of newfound patience until our matrimony.
Marsha says, “Trying to maintain celibacy with me before marriage is like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.” The taxi drops us off and into the new world of our apartment. She unpacks her clothes as I stand watching with new eyes and a new heart.
She was never a churchgoer back in Natchez. So with polite deference, I tell her, “I’m going to mass. But you are free to stay here if you like. After our packing and unpacking, you may want to rest.”
Marsha says, “John, never underestimate the stamina of a woman. But you look tired. Maybe you should put away your clothes after the ritual cannibalism.”
“That is an apt phrase for the Eucharist.”
She replies, “You know I am a lapsed Catholic. So please do take me to church. The church is something of my childhood which lives here. It will make me feel at home.”
“There is something which feels subversive about taking you to church. I can’t define it. Though you were raised Catholic, there is heresy in your lilt. And I could easily grow enamored by what feels to me to be your pagan spirit.”
“Oh you tease, you do make me feel right at home. Now take your heathen bride to your place of worship.”
Marsha and I walk under a brilliant blue sky with puffy clouds floating lazily overhead. Tourists walk by in herds making their procession. We pass through the crowd together on our own journey. As we approach Jackson Square the sensual beauty of Marsha in her tight floral print summer dress makes me giddy.
For the first time since my renewed vow to save myself for marriage, we touch each other. I put my arm around Marsha’s waist as we walk toward St. Louis Cathedral. Her body feels so warm and supple in my embrace.
She cozies close to me in a church pew. With her ring finger, she parts my lips and we steal a naughty kiss during mass. We take great pleasure in the priest’s scowl.
Girls gossip from way back in the pews where the priest can’t hear in this place of worship where the sisters of mercy pray for her soul.
At Eucharist, her hip swank leaves a wake of watchful male eyes with the hiss of wives as they swat their men’s legs. Upon pouring through a window depicting the temptation of Christ by the devil, and bathed in a mosaic of color, sunbeams turn into a wine light red which stains her décolletage.
We walk toward the Mediterranean store. We enter the store and I smell the rich aroma of baking French bread, Camembert, and Roquefort cheeses. But the vege muffaletta makes my mouth water and I yearn to taste the savory cuisine. We order the New Orleans cuisine stuffed with dripping with cheeses and olives.
As we sit eating, I gaze at her. I love watching her devour the sandwich. She licks her lips and I long to lick them for her. Everything she does, even eating, is done with such sensuality. Her southern twang is a bonny brogue that makes all the words go down smooth as Irish whiskey. She reaches across the table and brushes my hair from my forehead. Then she traces my lips with her fingertip. I sigh so passionately, I want her more than life itself.
We pass in front of St. Louis Cathedral where a fiddler plays tunes from old France. So in addition to the edibles, I get my ration of music. To my delight, Marsha gathers up her skirt and dances to his jig. She sings a duet with his bow strokes on the violin. In her bounce are the stars over a Provencal vineyard in a former life which passed me by.
A week later at home, she summons me with her finger to, “Come hither.” Her kiss strangely reminds me of Halvah, with its sweet sensation. She has a wry smile as she grasps my hand leading me to the bedroom.
We lie in the dark under a decorative crochet piece she tells me her grandmother made for her. I wonder what her grandmother would think of this.
Marsha asks me, “How come you didn’t bring me along on the expedition to secure housing? Lewis and Clark brought Sacagawea clear across the Rockies to Oregon and she was pregnant at that. New Orleans can hardly be called an untamed wilderness.”
“You got a few more paychecks in Natchez and we needed them for the rent deposit.”
She replies, “Bringing home the bread is my specialty. I hope your scoping out the city didn’t involve fraternizing with fräuleins on ladies night. But if you did, presumably just to make small talk because you were lonely, I hope you first checked their ring finger. I wouldn’t want to have to bear the brunt of all your bitching because I’m not on time with the ice packs for your broke jaw.”
I reply, “When the barista girl at the coffee house saw me crying she sat down with me at my table. ‘Sir, there are different kinds of sorrow. There is the fleeting emotion which comes from a memory of someone long gone. Then there is the grief which weighs heavy on the heart and may last a lifetime. Which is yours?’”
I tell her, “My gal and I are practically codependent but in a good way. She is on her way from Mississippi but the culture shock will be like we moved to San Francisco. New Orleans is a planet apart. But we’ve been nomads. At some point we need to settle our Goldilocks bottoms down in a comfortable place. Otherwise, we may end up strangers in a strange bed which belongs to somebody else.”
Marsha nods off. I can feel Marsha’s body heat next to me. Soon she is sound asleep with her head nestled against my shoulder. I can feel the rise and fall of her chest on mine. I kiss her lightly on the forehead and feel the arms of Morpheus embrace me.
I awaken from our chaste bed to her sunshine smile in the mirror. She says, “I got a job as a busgirl at a lounge nearby. I hope you don’t mind your future wife working.”
“Two paychecks are better than one. I can iron the clothes for you. Ironing is good for the soul.”
She replies, “Of course. Keep this in mind for when we replace Ole Rickety may he rest peacefully in the junkyard. Not only can I check the oil I can change it. If not for my sex I’d work as a tech at the lube place. But it is only the eighties. My grandma told me to give it time.”
I say, “With your pretty face you can be a waitress at an upscale restaurant where with the tips you’ll make more than the men and certainly more than a lube guy.”
She smiles. “There are perks to fulfilling my gender role.”
She primps herself for work and bundles her flaxen hair into a ponytail. I gaze at her beautification. She’d make an exquisite study for a nude, I muse. She must see me gazing at her in the mirror because her reflection smiles.
She wraps a skirt around her hips and buttons up her blouse next comes her heels. I wonder at how our gender roles might seem bizarre to an anthropologist from Betelgeuse. She dons the hat which is part of the dress code at her bar. She says, “John, how do you like me in my hat?”
“The hat is the cherry on top of the sundae.”
She says, “Men are nothing if not predictable. But you gotta love em just the same.”
“Women are nothing if not unpredictable. But you gotta love em just the same.”
She turns around with an impish smile and replies, “Aren’t we a silly pair?”
I say, “But you know your gift of gab complements my shyness like marmalade on toast.”
“Oh yes, no breakfast is complete without foreplay.”
My gait has a new liveliness which can only be that of the groom for my bride. My legs carry me to the baggage compartment of the bus which took her from Natchez to New Orleans. I made the trip ahead of her to scout out living quarters. With each disembarkee, my heart beats like a drum roll for my Marsha.
Like a sunrise over summer in Bordeaux, she emerges from the bus carrying her only luggage which was stowed away in the overhead storage. I try to take it from her hands. She says, “Really John, it is light enough even for a woman whose name is frailty.” But when she enters our apartment I will dress her up like a woman from the baroque era but at a Mardi Gras Ball. And in her freedom, she will be liberated from Mississippian customs which bind like an ill-fitted corset. With a half smile, she undoes her ponytail and lets her hair fall like spring rain down her shoulders.
She carries her travel bag with ease which even a fool such as I can’t mistake for masculinity. I refrain from touching her out of newfound patience until our matrimony.
Marsha says, “Trying to maintain celibacy with me before marriage is like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.” The taxi drops us off and into the new world of our apartment. She unpacks her clothes as I stand watching with new eyes and a new heart.
She was never a churchgoer back in Natchez. So with polite deference, I tell her, “I’m going to mass. But you are free to stay here if you like. After our packing and unpacking, you may want to rest.”
Marsha says, “John, never underestimate the stamina of a woman. But you look tired. Maybe you should put away your clothes after the ritual cannibalism.”
“That is an apt phrase for the Eucharist.”
She replies, “You know I am a lapsed Catholic. So please do take me to church. The church is something of my childhood which lives here. It will make me feel at home.”
“There is something which feels subversive about taking you to church. I can’t define it. Though you were raised Catholic, there is heresy in your lilt. And I could easily grow enamored by what feels to me to be your pagan spirit.”
“Oh you tease, you do make me feel right at home. Now take your heathen bride to your place of worship.”
Marsha and I walk under a brilliant blue sky with puffy clouds floating lazily overhead. Tourists walk by in herds making their procession. We pass through the crowd together on our own journey. As we approach Jackson Square the sensual beauty of Marsha in her tight floral print summer dress makes me giddy.
For the first time since my renewed vow to save myself for marriage, we touch each other. I put my arm around Marsha’s waist as we walk toward St. Louis Cathedral. Her body feels so warm and supple in my embrace.
She cozies close to me in a church pew. With her ring finger, she parts my lips and we steal a naughty kiss during mass. We take great pleasure in the priest’s scowl.
Girls gossip from way back in the pews where the priest can’t hear in this place of worship where the sisters of mercy pray for her soul.
At Eucharist, her hip swank leaves a wake of watchful male eyes with the hiss of wives as they swat their men’s legs. Upon pouring through a window depicting the temptation of Christ by the devil, and bathed in a mosaic of color, sunbeams turn into a wine light red which stains her décolletage.
We walk toward the Mediterranean store. We enter the store and I smell the rich aroma of baking French bread, Camembert, and Roquefort cheeses. But the vege muffaletta makes my mouth water and I yearn to taste the savory cuisine. We order the New Orleans cuisine stuffed with dripping with cheeses and olives.
As we sit eating, I gaze at her. I love watching her devour the sandwich. She licks her lips and I long to lick them for her. Everything she does, even eating, is done with such sensuality. Her southern twang is a bonny brogue that makes all the words go down smooth as Irish whiskey. She reaches across the table and brushes my hair from my forehead. Then she traces my lips with her fingertip. I sigh so passionately, I want her more than life itself.
We pass in front of St. Louis Cathedral where a fiddler plays tunes from old France. So in addition to the edibles, I get my ration of music. To my delight, Marsha gathers up her skirt and dances to his jig. She sings a duet with his bow strokes on the violin. In her bounce are the stars over a Provencal vineyard in a former life which passed me by.
A week later at home, she summons me with her finger to, “Come hither.” Her kiss strangely reminds me of Halvah, with its sweet sensation. She has a wry smile as she grasps my hand leading me to the bedroom.
We lie in the dark under a decorative crochet piece she tells me her grandmother made for her. I wonder what her grandmother would think of this.
Marsha asks me, “How come you didn’t bring me along on the expedition to secure housing? Lewis and Clark brought Sacagawea clear across the Rockies to Oregon and she was pregnant at that. New Orleans can hardly be called an untamed wilderness.”
“You got a few more paychecks in Natchez and we needed them for the rent deposit.”
She replies, “Bringing home the bread is my specialty. I hope your scoping out the city didn’t involve fraternizing with fräuleins on ladies night. But if you did, presumably just to make small talk because you were lonely, I hope you first checked their ring finger. I wouldn’t want to have to bear the brunt of all your bitching because I’m not on time with the ice packs for your broke jaw.”
I reply, “When the barista girl at the coffee house saw me crying she sat down with me at my table. ‘Sir, there are different kinds of sorrow. There is the fleeting emotion which comes from a memory of someone long gone. Then there is the grief which weighs heavy on the heart and may last a lifetime. Which is yours?’”
I tell her, “My gal and I are practically codependent but in a good way. She is on her way from Mississippi but the culture shock will be like we moved to San Francisco. New Orleans is a planet apart. But we’ve been nomads. At some point we need to settle our Goldilocks bottoms down in a comfortable place. Otherwise, we may end up strangers in a strange bed which belongs to somebody else.”
Marsha nods off. I can feel Marsha’s body heat next to me. Soon she is sound asleep with her head nestled against my shoulder. I can feel the rise and fall of her chest on mine. I kiss her lightly on the forehead and feel the arms of Morpheus embrace me.
I awaken from our chaste bed to her sunshine smile in the mirror. She says, “I got a job as a busgirl at a lounge nearby. I hope you don’t mind your future wife working.”
“Two paychecks are better than one. I can iron the clothes for you. Ironing is good for the soul.”
She replies, “Of course. Keep this in mind for when we replace Ole Rickety may he rest peacefully in the junkyard. Not only can I check the oil I can change it. If not for my sex I’d work as a tech at the lube place. But it is only the eighties. My grandma told me to give it time.”
I say, “With your pretty face you can be a waitress at an upscale restaurant where with the tips you’ll make more than the men and certainly more than a lube guy.”
She smiles. “There are perks to fulfilling my gender role.”
She primps herself for work and bundles her flaxen hair into a ponytail. I gaze at her beautification. She’d make an exquisite study for a nude, I muse. She must see me gazing at her in the mirror because her reflection smiles.
She wraps a skirt around her hips and buttons up her blouse next comes her heels. I wonder at how our gender roles might seem bizarre to an anthropologist from Betelgeuse. She dons the hat which is part of the dress code at her bar. She says, “John, how do you like me in my hat?”
“The hat is the cherry on top of the sundae.”
She says, “Men are nothing if not predictable. But you gotta love em just the same.”
“Women are nothing if not unpredictable. But you gotta love em just the same.”
She turns around with an impish smile and replies, “Aren’t we a silly pair?”
I say, “But you know your gift of gab complements my shyness like marmalade on toast.”
“Oh yes, no breakfast is complete without foreplay.”
