Mist and haze. In the early summer, they were ever-present partners in southeast Louisiana, and in the streets of New Orleans. Darkness added an eerie quality that Dallas thought was unmatched anywhere; it was one of those things you just had to see, just had to experience. This was one of the reasons that he had suggested, off-handedly, that Carla meet him down here, instead of Boston, or Philadelphia, or New York, or any of a list of cities on the Eastern Seaboard, with their cookie-cutter blight and unattractive spots. Of course, New Orleans had them too in places, especially outside the French Quarter (also known as the Vieux Carre) but there was no place like the Big Easy; that was to be sure.
They walked slowly, over the dated sidewalks, feeling the heavy air around them, the understated fog encircling them. Eastward down Chartres Street they went, looking in each other's eyes now and then (how easy it was to get lost in them), soaking up the scenes around them, commenting, making general conversation. After passing the western half of the Pontalba Apartments, the wrought iron fencing and landmark statue of Jackson Square appeared on their right. To the left, the St. Louis Cathedral stood, its gray and black spires lit in a striking, artificial white light. A street guitarist played a better-than-average blues riff on the sidewalk corner; Dallas flipped a dollar into his worn leather case.
New Orleans was one place that Dallas knew a good bit about, and he was making sure that Carla knew that he knew. Once in awhile he would get on a roll and he would try and show off a little in front of her intellectually. From the start of their interaction, on the website forum where they had begun to communicate innocently enough, he had always been impressed with her sophistication and intelligence. There was something different about her that he liked—the style with which she talked, the language she used, the way she carried herself in conversation, her jovial, sometimes teasing personality, her eclectic tastes. At times during some of their written exchanges, he found himself feeling a little inadequate. Afterwards, he would reflect on their discussion and realize that it wasn't his inadequacy that was an issue. It was simply that he had not had an opportunity, in at least two decades, to meet someone of Carla's depth—at least at this intimate a level—and he just wasn't used to the exercise. Also, Carla loved history, and so, whenever the opportunity arose to share a little historical trivia that she may not know, he rarely let it pass.
"The Cabildo building served as the seat of the Spanish colonial government in the late 18th century. This is one of the things I find absolutely fascinating about the French Quarter. It may have been called French but there are so many influences down here. The city has a long history of different occupations. The mix of cultures is nothing short of remarkable…Carla?"
A pause.
"Carla?" Dallas repeated, a little more firmly.
"Hmm?"
Dallas smiled. "I think my lecture on the history of the French Quarter must be growing tired and dull."
Carla returned the smile and answered, "No, no, it's not that. I am kind of lost in all this. It's incredible…"
"But...?" Dallas replied, his question open-ended.
"But, I'm just a little tired. And I have a lot on my mind."
"I thought part of the reason we came down here was to get some things OFF our mind."
"It was. And some things are off my mind, yes. But others…"
Dallas was not going to press for details. As had always been the case in their relationship, if she wanted to talk, she would. When a few seconds passed and she didn't continue, he broke the silence. "Perhaps I should skip the remainder of the history lecture for tonight."
"Maybe so. Please don't be offended, Dallas. Right now I'd just kind of like to walk in silence, and take it all in…OK?"
"You know there's never a problem with telling me what you want. It's just you and me here…and no rules."
"Yes, but it's more fun making you figure it out. It's good for you."
Dallas turned towards her with his typical "yeah right" kind of look on his face, the right corner of his mouth in a smirk. Carla giggled. "I'm joking," she said, "I know I can tell you anything. And thank you."
"For gosh sakes, don't thank me. I think you know me a little better than that by now." He smiled, looking at her. She smiled back, and once again their eyes locked for a moment.
Dallas had posted a request for dialogue on the website forum months before; a simple invitation for anyone that may be interested to talk about the changes that life brings in love, in beliefs—and why. His life through his 30's had been a long journey, much of it unpleasant. A thankless job and his reaction to it (using alcohol as a crutch to numb the pain of underachievement, which was a self-fulfilling prophecy in and of itself) almost killed him. He had truly stepped to the edge of the abyss, had looked in, had somehow avoided falling in, and had done it all on his own. He had made it through, and was stronger for it. Yet, he had arrived at 40 and found that, although things started to fall into place with a new job and a career that started to roll, some of his real trials were just beginning. Love had turned to bitterness and mistrust. When he had wanted help, as he stood at the edge of that figurative alcoholic gorge and very well could have fallen past the point of no return, there was none coming…even from those that he loved the most. That wasn't the only problem. Sex had become a rare event in his life, and his marriage had been on the verge of qualifying as sexless for several years now. His above-average libido certainly did not help the situation. Perhaps it was elevated from lack of satisfaction. At any rate, trying to talk about it with his wife was futile. The ideal of being able to be intimate—to be able to truly talk with a soulmate in the absence of judgment, to really share what was important, and to work out differences—was nothing but a pipe dream. It had been this way for over a decade; it just hadn't stung that bad until now, since he had spent most of those years drinking. Through his experiences, and even before, he had changed in fundamental ways that she had never, and would never, be able to accept. But, to keep the peace, he had just decided to keep quiet and take it. As time passed, he had become less and less able to rationalize it, and started to wonder: will it be this way forever? It became harder to deal with. And he realized that, surely, he wasn't the only one who might feel this way. So he posted, and he waited.
Just as he was beginning to become certain that his post was going to fade into oblivion, along with hundreds of thousands that others make every day, Carla had answered. A lot of what he had been feeling was reflected in her words. He replied in turn. What followed was an almost daily exchange of ideas, of thoughts, of general chit-chat, and of flirting and teasing, that went on for weeks, and then months.
As luck would have it, they were fairly close geographically. They had met for coffee one day, and their rendezvous had turned into a three-hour discussion, effortless and natural. Dallas found Carla very attractive, with her green eyes and short brunette hair. He found himself staring at her several times and having to catch himself. Before he would break his gaze, on those occasions, he did notice was that Carla was staring back on those occasions, right back into his blue eyes, and not looking away.
As they were saying their goodbyes that day, they looked at each other one last time, and Dallas, caught totally off-guard by her gaze, and her voice, had thought about kissing her for a brief second. He stopped himself—it wasn't the best of places. But in that moment, he felt an ever-so-subtle flutter that he was totally unprepared for, and one that he thought she may have shared. Time would tell.
Later, they had agreed to meet again, for a longer period, when the situation presented itself. It seemed like a faraway wish with their schedules, but not long after, an opportunity came. It was one that was much more than they had hoped for. By pure chance, they were able to get away from their substantial routine commitments for the same couple of days, and so, after Dallas's long shot suggestion of the Big Easy, they had hopped a plane to Louis Armstrong Airport and gotten separate rooms at a fine French Quarter hotel that Dallas had stayed in on multiple occasions previously.
They had arrived early in the hot Louisiana afternoon, and had time to get settled and to scout out the area. They made the obligatory trips to the French Market and the Café du Monde for beignets, down the Riverwalk, into and out of the commercialism of Jax Brewery, walking all the while. Later, from Canal Street, a ride on the St. Charles streetcar, past the homes of the Garden District, Commander's Palace, the home of Anne Rice, then back to the Quarter. The evening approached; a taxi back to the hotel to clean up a bit and change, then on to dinner at Antoine's. Carla was able to read the exclusively French menu, without help. Although a little taken aback and impressed, the waiter still customarily suggested something for the evening. Dallas and Carla deferred to his suggestions, and were not disappointed.
On they had gone after dinner…past Preservation Hall and old-time Dixieland jazz…up to Bourbon Street, with music of all kinds in every corner, and trademark decadence. Dallas, embarrassingly but openly, felt led to point out the strip joint where he, in the midst of a trademark drinking binge, got bilked out of $600 years ago. It was easy to spot, with the cheesy wooden female legs swinging in and out of a narrow window. His revelation was a story that had not led itself to details, and probably never would. Inside, he was smiling; it would have been nice if he could have remembered half of what went on that night.
They stopped by Pat O'Brien's, a "sensible" Hurricane for Carla, a Mint Julep for Dallas. Finishing those off had left them a little giddy; they had turned around, making a left off of Bourbon southward, and then turning east again at Chartres.
And now they were making their way back towards the far-east boundary of the Vieux Carre, in silence, with a long day behind them, and who-knew-what kind of night ahead.
As they walked, Dallas extended a gentlemanly arm to Carla. She took it, and they walked that way, in silence, down the five blocks on Chartres, past the residential flats, past the old Ursuline Convent, to the hotel. They arrived and entered, making their way over the black-and-white tiled lobby to the elevator. A brief look over to the normally friendly front desk clerk revealed his preoccupation with some administrative task, and they slipped by silently.
A push on the up button, and in seconds, the doors opened and they got in. Carla pushed the "3" button, the doors closed, and the car began to rise with a slow, deliberate hitch.
