I fell in love a week ago. In New Orleans, at a bar on Frenchman Street, I fell in love with a trombone player. At least the kind of love you feel for someone when you’re about eight drinks in and it’s 2 am and there’s a musician in the room. Which, to be honest, could be the truest love of them all. And I mean, he played the thing really well. Not that I know anything about trombones, but people went up wanting to high five him so I guess he was good. It was all very sexy. I was in the crowd, drunk off my ass (as you are in New Orleans) and I decided on him about three minutes after having walked into the place. He moved so naturally, nodding his head back and forth to the beat. I was captivated and felt a very strong urge, almost need, to talk to him. Naturally I went for the most effective flirting technique of all, which we all know is staring. After a while he noticed the tall girl with frizzy hair in snake pants and soccer mom sneakers (me) and he smiled. Kind of like as if I was a joyful surprise.
We spent the gig making eyes and smiling at each other. The feeling of being completely in control, of having started it, was so thrilling. When he was done playing we got to talking and later to kissing and the next night we danced together at a live jazz bar in Bywater. I’m not sure if that is how you do it in Louisiana, but to me it felt like I was living some Southern romance novel. Especially when he took me out on the street and we made out up against the hood of his car. It was all very high school movie-ish, but hotter. Also, the fact that he owned a car was surprisingly hot to me? Would not have expected that at all as I’m honestly really turned off by guys who’re into anything that goes fast. But him driving was yum.
After having said goodbye for like two hours the time was about a quarter to when he had to leave for his 6.30 am flight. I really didn’t want to go. This whole thing had me feeling like myself two years ago. When hooking up with hot musicians, not caring about work and never looking at the time was my vibe. I guess I grew out of that person when moving from America and turned into a goodie Swedish girl who makes lunch boxes and has a reminder on her phone to drink enough water. I’m not sure if it was him or the music or the heat that transformed me, but something did and I realized that I’ve missed her.
When we finally parted and I got out of the car I could barely stand on my two feet. Legs shaking. I turned around and waved as I slowly tried to walk without falling (wore flats by the way). He smiled and waved and held off starting his car. Both lingering in a 24 hour love story that was about to die out as we sobered up over the night. Him driving to the airport to go away on a tour. Me walking in a somewhat straight line toward one more day in jazzland before leaving the country and my trombone player behind me. Falling out of love again.
It’s the kind of stuff you write about.