The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
9 min read·1,662 words
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I. THE SURFACE
You are sitting too close to me, and the air in Snug Harbor is too thick with the scent of spilled bourbon and damp floorboards for me to breathe right. We are supposed to be celebrating. It’s been three years since the funeral, and our friends think we’re the success story—the widow and the best friend who stayed loyal, who kept the pieces from scattering. But as the quartet on the stage starts into a frantic, dissonant version of ‘Autumn Leaves,’ all I can think about is the way your shoulder feels through your linen jacket. It’s a dry heat, a contrast to the swampy humidity waiting for us outside on Frenchmen Street.
You order another round. Sazeracs. You watch the bartender peel the lemon, the oils spraying a tiny, invisible mist over the surface of the drink. You don’t look at me when you ask if I’m okay. You haven’t looked at me directly for more than three seconds all night. You’re being careful. You’ve always been the careful one. When Elias was alive, you were the anchor; now that he’s gone, you’re the ghost. You sit there with your heavy wedding band still catching the low amber light—the ring you never took off, even after the divorce, even after the world ended. It’s a silent rebuke to the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
‘It’s loud in here,’ you say, leaning in so your mouth is just inches from my ear. Your breath smells like anise and cold sugar. I can feel the vibration of your voice in my teeth. I nod, because if I speak, I might tell you that the noise isn’t the problem. The problem is the six inches of empty space between our chairs that feels like a canyon. We talk about the weather, the Saints, the new menu at the restaurant where I’m managing the floor. We talk about everything except the fact that my hand is trembling as I reach for my glass. We are a study in restraint, two people performing a role for a room that isn’t even watching us. When the set ends and the lights come up just a fraction, you stand and offer me your hand. It’s a polite gesture. A gentleman’s gesture. But when my palm meets yours, the calluses on your fingers catch against my skin like a promise of something rougher, and I realize we are both lying to ourselves.
II. THE FRICTION
You are sitting so close to me that I can feel the heat radiating off your thigh, a slow-cooker warmth that’s making the silk of my dress cling to the backs of my legs. I didn’t choose this dress for comfort. I chose it because it’s the color of a bruised plum and it slides over my hips like oil. I know you noticed. I saw the way your throat moved when I walked into the lobby. I saw the way you adjusted your tie, a nervous habit you only have when you’re trying to suppress an appetite.
Under the table, the real story is unfolding. My knee brushes yours—a mistake, or a test. You don’t move away. In fact, you lean into the contact, a heavy, deliberate pressure that sends a jolt straight to the base of my spine. I think about the kitchen back at the house, the way you used to stand over the stove and talk about the 'fond'—the dark, caramelized bits stuck to the bottom of the pan that hold all the flavor. That’s what we are right now. We are the stuff that’s been burnt down, concentrated, turned into something thick and savory and dangerous.
I watch your hands. You have the hands of an architect, precise and strong, but I’ve seen them handle a crawfish boil, seen them get messy and red. I want them messy now. I want them on me, ignoring the lace and the history and the memory of the man who brought us together. The music is a blur, just a series of vibrations that I feel in my pelvis. Every time the bass player hits a low note, I imagine it’s your thumb pressing into the soft meat of my hip. You reach for your drink and your forearm grazes mine. The hair on your arm is dark and soft, and the sensation makes my breath hitch. You notice. You finally look at me, and your eyes aren't careful anymore. They are hungry. They are the eyes of a man who has been fasting for three years and has finally smelled the roast.
‘We should go,’ you mutter. Your voice is a low growl, stripped of its polite New Orleans lilt. You aren't asking. You’re stating a fact. The air between us is no longer oxygen; it’s something combustible. I can feel the dampness between my legs, a heavy, pulsing ache that demands to be answered. My wedding ring is in my purse. I took it off in the car. I wonder if you noticed the pale circle of skin on my finger. I wonder if you care. As we stand to leave, your hand finds the small of my back, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like a widow. I feel like a woman who is about to be consumed.
III. THE UNRAVELING
You are sitting too close to me, and thank God for it. The second the door to the private booth clicks shut, the restraint we’ve been nursing for three years snaps like a dry branch in a hurricane. There is no polite conversation here, no 'Autumn Leaves,' no Sazeracs. There is only the frantic sound of your zipper and the way you groan into my neck when I finally wrap my fingers around you. You are hard, a thick, heavy weight that I’ve been dreaming about since the first time I saw you lean against a doorframe in the summer of 2019.
'Jesus, Elena,' you choke out, your hands fumbling with the hem of my plum-colored dress. You don’t wait for me to help. You bunch the silk up in your fists, dragging it over my hips until my lace underwear is exposed. You don’t take them off. You just hook your fingers into the side and rip them to the side. The sound of the fabric stretching is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. You press me back against the leather bench, the cold material a shock against my bare skin, and then you’re there—your face between my thighs, your tongue finding me with a directness that makes me scream into the empty air of the booth.
You taste like the rye in your drink and the salt of the city. You are aggressive, your tongue swirling over my clit with a rhythmic, punishing pressure that makes my hips buck uncontrollably. I grab your hair, pulling your head closer, wanting to swallow you whole. My fingers dig into your scalp, and I hear you laugh—a dark, triumphant sound—against my wetness. You’re deglazing me, stripping away the layers of grief and propriety until there’s nothing left but this raw, animal need.
When you finally stand, your face is flushed and your eyes are wild. You don’t say a word. You just grab my thighs and pull me to the edge of the bench. I wrap my legs around your waist, the fabric of your trousers rough against my inner thighs. You guide yourself to the opening, and when you push inside, it’s a slow, agonizing slide that feels like being filled with hot lead. You are so big, so much more than I prepared for, and for a second, I can’t breathe. You stop, your forehead against mine, your breath coming in jagged hitches.
'Tell me to stop,' you whisper. It’s a lie. You don’t want me to stop. You want permission to ruin us both.
'Don’t you dare,' I hiss, and I arch my back, taking all of you.
The rhythm is frantic. You aren't being careful anymore. You are slamming into me, your hips hitting mine with a wet, heavy thud that echoes in the small space. Every thrust is a reclamation. You reach down, your thumb finding my clit and rubbing it hard as you move inside me, and the combination is too much. I’m a reduction on a high flame, boiling over, screaming your name into your shoulder as my walls clench around you in a series of violent, rhythmic pulses. You hold on for two more strokes, your fingers bruising my skin, before you let out a long, low sound and come deep inside me, your body shuddering with the force of it.
We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the hum of the air conditioner and the muffled thump of the drums from the stage outside. Your head is buried in the crook of my neck. I can feel your heart hammering against my chest, a frantic, living thing. You pull back just enough to look at me, and for the first time, you aren't looking at the widow. You’re looking at me.
'I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you,' you say, your voice rough and honest.
I reach up, tracing the line of your jaw, my fingers still trembling. 'I know,' I say. 'I could smell it on you.'
You lean down and kiss me—not a polite kiss, but a slow, tasting one, deep with the flavor of what we just did. Then you reach over and pick up your jacket from the floor. As you put it on, your wedding ring glints in the low light. You look at it for a second, then look back at me. Without a word, you slide it off your finger and drop it into your pocket.
'Let’s go home,' you say. And for the first time in three years, I know exactly where that is.
