When We Touch

“I don’t know what she’s doing with him.” Turning my back to the bar, I watch the band and the couples dancing, but my mind is following her home.

“When I met Thelma, she was dating this guy… he was so far beneath her, I nearly couldn’t take it.” He does a little chuckle into his tumbler of scotch.

“Where was that?” I turn to face him.

“New Orleans. I grew up there.”

“I figured as much. Did you work in a restaurant?”

He gives me a wry smile. “I was a musician.”

“Yeah? What instrument?”

“Guitar, trumpet, drums. I graduated from UNO in music, sat in with a few of the greats at the House of Blues, Deacon John, Wayne Sanchez…”

“You played with Deacon John?”

André laughs at me. “I was just a kid. He let me play with him at Tipitina’s once.”

“That’s good shit. How the hell did you end up here making poboys?”

Shaking his head, he takes another pull off his drink. I follow his gaze down the bar to where Thelma is talking and laughing with Tabby and Donna. She’s a beautiful lady.

“Love will make you do some crazy shit,” he says, his voice thick with love.

“It’s true.” I turn to face the bar again, thinking about ordering another drink and really wanting to be with Ember. “So Thelma dragged you here?”

“I guess you could say I followed her.” A twinkle is in his eye. “She always wanted to move here. Had an uncle from Madison.”

“And the poboys?”

He exhales. “You can’t grow up in New Orleans and not know food. I got here and realized I wasn’t going to earn a living in the music business.”

I can’t resist teasing him. “Not interested in sitting in with these guys?”

He laughs. “I don’t mind beach music. The Dead, Marley.”

“It’s the lack of soul you can’t get onboard with?”

That gets me a bigger laugh. “There’s some blue-eyed soul happening.” Pointing to the fellow on bass, he nods. “He’s hitting some interesting licks.”

“Okay.” I nod, hoping he’s aware I’m totally out of my league talking reggae music versus traditional New Orleans blues.

“All this place needed was some good food. I figured I’d give it to them.”

“I’m a believer. You’re a master.”

“Except for the brie.”

“Somebody will love that brie shit. Just not me.”

“Just not you,” he says it at the same time, and we both laugh.

For a minute, we listen to the band putting their spin on “Santeria” by Sublime. A few couples are out on the floor doing a two-step. I think about living in this town, being able to hop down to the beach, surf, love on Ember whenever I get a chance. The simple life of Oceanside always appealed to me. It was my father who demanded I be “better,” whatever the fuck that means. I already had what made me happy, what made me complete.

“It’s not a bad place to live.” I don’t state the obvious—I’m here and my presence is solely dependent on what happens with Ember. I can’t imagine living here without her.

“Not much different from what I’m used to,” he says, polishing off his drink. “Pristine, idyllic beaches meet meddling gossipers and busybodies.”