After the Storm
Harry flipped the light switch on and off. The shaded, tassled bulb responded and he nodded, then raised a curious eyebrow at Chris. She looked at him and the corners of her mouth raised in the slightest of smiles and her face seemed to say "Yeah, thanks for checking that out." It said something else too. Something darker and quieter, said in a place far, far away. It was something Harry knew, because he had it to say too but was holding off, holding back, digging his heels in the sand to keep from getting to that edge that he was inevitably going to come to and he knew this time he was jumping.
The air in the apartment, condominium actually, hung heavy moved slowly by one of two ubiquitous ceiling fans. The place was small and in a recently re-habbed loft on Magazine Street, just off Canal. The neighborhood had flooded but the waters had spared most of the French Quarter, two blocks away. Being that close, and with downtown a short walk in the other direction, the block got fixed earlier than most. There was money here. Not a lot but not ninth ward shotgun ranch poor either. Chris was in the heart of rebuilt and revived New Orleans and she was staying. This was where it was going to end, right here where she felt she could settle, surround herself with most of the things she loved, work, make a difference, feel safe.
Harry was leaving. They both knew it and they took the weight off each other's shoulders just last night, just on the east side of Jackson Square when he reached out to touch her hand. Just to get her attention, to show her something in a store window or a street busker or a cracked stone in the sidewalk for all he could remember. But he touched her and she turned and now he had her arm and her other arm was around him and then they kissed hot and violently, publicly entwined in a way they hadn't since, what, Thayer Street? They kissed again and then once more and stepped back from each other. He looked into her eyes and said it. It closed the door to the past they had and knew they couldn't continue with.
"I'm never going to put you on a plane again."
She understood what he meant.
He was leaving. She was staying. This was New Orleans and her new home and Harry was going home. Once and for all. To the small, old house in the little town he felt content in. To the job that kept him busy and surrounded with friends he cared more and more about as years went on. To the woman who had gotten out of her truck one Monday night and filled herself into every corner of Harry's life. He loved her. They both knew it. Harry had only come down to make sure that Chris was "all settled" which of course they now knew was code for the kiss on Jackson Square.
Goodbye. The edge of the precipice had been reached. He looked at Chris. She stood in the middle of the room, under the tassled shade of the ceiling light, smiling. There wouldn't be a last kiss. That had happened already. Harry smiled and Chris smiled back and he stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind him and wondered what his boots sounded like to her as they faded down the corridor.
The air in the apartment, condominium actually, hung heavy moved slowly by one of two ubiquitous ceiling fans. The place was small and in a recently re-habbed loft on Magazine Street, just off Canal. The neighborhood had flooded but the waters had spared most of the French Quarter, two blocks away. Being that close, and with downtown a short walk in the other direction, the block got fixed earlier than most. There was money here. Not a lot but not ninth ward shotgun ranch poor either. Chris was in the heart of rebuilt and revived New Orleans and she was staying. This was where it was going to end, right here where she felt she could settle, surround herself with most of the things she loved, work, make a difference, feel safe.
Harry was leaving. They both knew it and they took the weight off each other's shoulders just last night, just on the east side of Jackson Square when he reached out to touch her hand. Just to get her attention, to show her something in a store window or a street busker or a cracked stone in the sidewalk for all he could remember. But he touched her and she turned and now he had her arm and her other arm was around him and then they kissed hot and violently, publicly entwined in a way they hadn't since, what, Thayer Street? They kissed again and then once more and stepped back from each other. He looked into her eyes and said it. It closed the door to the past they had and knew they couldn't continue with.
"I'm never going to put you on a plane again."
She understood what he meant.
He was leaving. She was staying. This was New Orleans and her new home and Harry was going home. Once and for all. To the small, old house in the little town he felt content in. To the job that kept him busy and surrounded with friends he cared more and more about as years went on. To the woman who had gotten out of her truck one Monday night and filled herself into every corner of Harry's life. He loved her. They both knew it. Harry had only come down to make sure that Chris was "all settled" which of course they now knew was code for the kiss on Jackson Square.
Goodbye. The edge of the precipice had been reached. He looked at Chris. She stood in the middle of the room, under the tassled shade of the ceiling light, smiling. There wouldn't be a last kiss. That had happened already. Harry smiled and Chris smiled back and he stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind him and wondered what his boots sounded like to her as they faded down the corridor.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at 8:33 AM
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