Chapter 12
Lyrix
The city had a heartbeat, and the night led us straight to Frenchmen Street.
Maison parked a few blocks down, and we walked hand in hand.
The air was thick with music. We stopped at the first corner where local artists had their booths set up beneath string lights.
Canvases leaned against trees, and tables spilled over with handmade jewelry, incense, oils, candles, wood carvings, and more colors than my eyes could keep up with.
A pair of earrings caught my attention. I lingered but I didn’t say a word. I just looked too long.
Next thing I knew, Maison had slipped over to the booth, whispered something to the woman behind it, and when I turned, he was already walking back with a velvet pouch in hand.
“Keep looking,” he said casually, tucking the bag into my palm. “You blinked at ‘em too long. That meant they belonged to you.”
I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.
At the next table, there were acrylic paintings of Black women with thick thighs, full lips, natural hair like crowns. I wanted every single one.
He bought two before I could even decide.
“I don’t need a gallery,” I joked.
Then we came across a watercolor painting of a couple in full Mardi Gras attire with glitter on their skin. We both froze.
“Tell me that don’t look like us from the other day,” he said.
“Down to the edges on her hair and the loud ass colors,” I laughed.
We bought that one too.
As we kept walking, we passed a man freestyling. He was smooth with it, too. As we got closer, he caught sight of us holding hands, and like he’d been waiting on us to arrive.
The whole crowd was clapping. I walked up and dropped a few bills in his jar, and without missing a beat, he rapped:
“She tip like she healed, walk like she know,
That everything good take time to grow.
Vibes so rich, they don’t need no bling,
But her man bought it anyway, just for the swing.”
Maison and I were both grinning like damn fools.
I loved the city. I loved it sooooo much. The spirit, the sound, the people… it was a city that didn’t just welcome you. It made you a part of it.
Before we knew it, we were carrying so many bags with paintings, jewelry, candles, journals, and some handmade soap I swore smelled like sensuality itself, that we had to make the trip back to his car to unload.
“That’s how they get you,” I joked. “They hit you with vibes, then take your whole check.”
He laughed, popped the trunk, and helped me load everything in carefully.
On the walk back toward Frenchmen, he slid his hand around my waist and kissed my temple. “You hungry?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “I’m always hungry for some New Orleans food.”
He grinned and said, “Bet. Say less,” then turned us right toward a cozy, dimly-lit place across from one of the art galleries.
He pulled the door open for me and the second he opened that door, I felt the warmth and soul.
The space was dim-lit with golden glows bouncing off brick walls.
A small stage sat tucked in the front with a live band already playing.
I’m talking real instruments. Trumpet, sax, trombone, upright bass, drums, and keys.
All of them grooving together. Just the perfect mix of laughter, candlelight, and live music hugging every corner of the room.
He guided me to a table near the stage with a flickering candle in the center.
I sat down and looked around with a smile.
“This is perfect,” I whispered.
Before he could respond, our waitress walked up.
“Can I get y’all started with anything?”
I glanced at Maison, then back at her. “Just a glass of red wine for me. Surprise me.”
Then I turned to him and raised my eyebrows, giving him that silent you got it, daddy look. He caught it with a grin.
“We’ll do two entrees,” he said. “Red beans with fried catfish, and the smothered turkey necks with gravy over potato salad.”
The waitress chuckled. “You got good taste, baby.”
He winked. “I know.”
She walked off and the band slowed down. A few of the horns played an opening, and by the time the drums tapped in behind them, my whole body froze.
It was “Nice & Slow” by Usher.
You could hear every damn woman in the room gasp or hum in appreciation. The band made it real sexy. Slowed the tempo, let the instruments breathe, and gave the melody room to seduce you.
Folks started getting up. Whole couples sliding out of their chairs like they were back in high school, about to grind in a slow circle like it was prom night.
“You gone dance with me?” I teased, already halfway standing.
He reached out a hand like a gentleman. “Hell Yeah.”
I slid into his arms, and the moment his hands hit my waist, my knees turned to gumbo.
The band kept playing, and we moved in sync. I had my arms around his neck, his forehead leaning into mine, both of us swaying like nobody else was in the room. Like we were slow-cooking something tender with our bodies.
The saxophone hit that run and I whispered, “Mmm, I forgot how good slow music feels in your bones.”
He chuckled low in my ear, “You tryna start something in public?”
“I mean…” I shrugged, eyes sparkling. “This is New Orleans. Public indecency here feels like a rite of passage.”
He laughed, leaned in, and kissed me soft.
Once.
Twice.
Then his hands slid lower and the third kiss turned into a whole make-out session.
Right there on the dance floor in front of God and everybody.
I didn’t care. Nobody cared. Hell, other couples were doing the same thing.
Because when the music is good, the food is on the way, and the man in front of you feels like a poem you finally understand, you let go.
And baby, I was gone.