T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

After Café Du Monde, they sat on a bench in the center of the Quarter, in Jackson Square, a park girdled in ornate fencing, and beyond that bordered by a courtyard of eighteenth-century townhouses skirted with baroque wrought-iron galleries. Behind the park stood St. Louis Cathedral, its white stucco walls glowing in the sun like an enchanted palace. On the other side of the park was a queue of horse-drawn carriages, Jax Brewery, and, above the ridge, ironically, the Mississippi. Rock doves darted from finger to finger of trees that rose from the ground like hands reaching for the sky. Leaves purled in the background, tourists submitted to caricature artists, and the shadow of Andrew Jackson’s statue chased a sun-seeking golden retriever across the lawn.

Ines’s smile was a flame, igniting all it touched. Old men saw her and proffered toothless grins, babies stopped crying. Even the retriever occasionally ventured into the shade that had crept over their bench to offer his cold wet greeting. And everything Ines anointed with her smile Achilles liked, including the golden retriever, when he usually preferred Labs. He was proud to be with this woman with a smile like fire, spreading as if carried on the wind. Ines touched his hand and pointed to the petal of a black-eyed Susan pirouetting across his shoe. He picked it up, placed the spot of yellow in his palm, and blew it back into the wind. A tall, slim man loped across the park, turning away as soon as he saw Achilles. Achilles sat up and stared. The man was light-skinned, but his shoulders were too narrow. A few minutes later, another man who looked like Troy passed. He wore a blue suit and loafers. Troy had never worn a suit in his life, not even at their father’s funeral.

“Observant Achilles.” Ines kissed him on the neck. “That’s what I like about you. You’re so vigilant.”

Achilles shivered, his body thumping from the kiss, his mind still split between Ines and Troy, between his pleasure at being with her and his resentment about his brother not calling, a resentment that grew by the minute. He so wanted Troy to call. Achilles had earned that much. The man in the blue suit passed again and winked. Achilles pulled Ines close. She hummed softly against his neck. “I feel safe with you,” she said. “I know there won’t be any unpleasant surprises.”

They rambled and giggled, talked of where they’d been and where they yet hoped to go. Her voice made every destination appealing, though he was satisfied with the Vieux Carré, which thrummed with energy. In the background were two yellow-rumped warblers playing in a fountain and a steamboat’s paddle and stack, the latter lightly smoking and red at the tip, like a cigarette recently stubbed out by a beautiful woman.

Gone were the coffee can planters, the crumbling cornices, and the mindless litter. It wasn’t the New Orleans he’d met with Wages. It wasn’t the same city at all. The only thing missing was Troy. He could at least call to say thank you. If not that, at least hello.

“Flak jacket, babe,” said Ines with a wink. It was what she said to him when he looked tense.

Achilles sat up. What a smile. It wouldn’t hurt to stay one more night.

She called “twisting” the only tangible skill she’d learned in college, a skill she employed on a semiregular basis, often on Saturday nights. She liked to smoke on the roof of her apartment building, pointing out her favorite spots in the city every five minutes and pointing them out again five minutes later. Though he had only smoked once before, in high school with Troy, and the nearly incapacitating paranoia lingered for several days, Achilles had been joining her, finding it pleasant. While his physical tolerance was unchanged, he was sufficiently accustomed to spikes of paranoia.

Wearing sheets like togas, they climbed the fire escape to the roof. After it kicked in, and he felt the cottonmouth, the hyperconsciousness — he could hear his stomach growl, his heart beat, his blood rush — all he could think was, pancakes or eggs? It was upside-down day, when they would eat breakfast food for dinner, and Achilles couldn’t decide what would be better.

The sun had just set and the weather was perfect, warm but with a cool breeze off the river. Someone a few floors down was watching Saturday Night Live with the window open. The building only had seven stories, so they were low enough to also hear the hum of cars and the occasional drunk at the sports bar across the street cheering on the Saints. He could feel the wind on his neck, so slow it was like a hand gripping him and working around to his chest in short, frisky bursts.

Pacing as she spoke, she started talking about work, which she often did before the high kicked in, noting random aggravations and slights. She was morally offended by the reluctance that charities had for working with each other, which she blamed on faith-based initiatives. Achilles followed her purposeful strut as she walked with her head forward and down, almost as if she were dictating to an unseen secretary.

The Saints must have scored, because a cheer erupted from the sports bar. Horns blared. “Are you listening?” she asked after the noise died down, clapping. When she clapped, her thighs shook. He was getting another hard-on.

She mirrored his lascivious grin. “This is serious.” She stepped over to the parapet wall and looked out over the horizon. “You can’t not love this city, no matter what it does wrong. It’s like a wayward sibling, a spoiled little brother. It’s like a prodigal son, except you always return to it.” She pointed toward Lee Circle, where a streetcar trundled round the turnabout. “See there, that streetcar? From that corner where it turns up Carrolton down to the zoo is the island where I grew up. That’s how I think of it now, as an island. It’s a small town. Sooner or later, everyone you know will cross paths. Don’t you love it here?” She toked.

Achilles walked over to Ines and put his hand on her ass. “I like it here.”

Smoke sputtered out as she laughed. “I like you liking it there. But what about here?”

He stuck his nose between her breasts. “I like it here. These are great, perfect. I don’t even know why other women bother to put breasts on in the morning.”

She laughed and pushed him away.

“Careful,” said Achilles, swinging his arms in an exaggerated manner, as if he were at risk of going over the edge.

“What about you? Why don’t you talk about yourself more even when you smoke?”

“I talk about myself all the time.”

“Hmmph!” said Ines. She straightened to her full height. Her startling profile was set off by the billboard across the street, the white of her sheet eating up the black background. She was so sexy. Sometimes he just wanted to bite her, to just bite a big fucking chunk out of her ass. Ines stomped once, then twice, as if testing out the floor. She rounded her shoulders and paced back and forth with heavy, tromping steps. “You hulk a little, hunched like you’re under pressure, like there’s something you’ve got to hold so tightly, hold it until it hurts you, like you’ve been kicked in the stomach, like you’re carrying a secret and you think if you squeeze it tight enough, it will become a diamond.”

“Bullshit,” said Achilles. “I don’t walk like that. That’s how you walk when, when, when you’re stoned.”

“You can take the flak jacket off.”

A troop of rollerbladers towing a boombox in a baby stroller stopped at the intersection and performed the dance routine from “Thriller.”

“See.” Ines closed her eyes, took a drag, and held it in so long that Achilles gently pinched her to make sure she was still breathing. A car cruised by blasting a local rapper. Achilles recognized the song but didn’t know the artist’s name. Ines laughed and bobbed her head to the music. “I’m wrong. You don’t walk like that. But why don’t you talk about yourself?”