I walked out and found her looking out onto the balcony, crying with her head in her hands. I went back to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and wondered why do I always get the crazy ones. Maybe crazy is the wrong word; emotional, sensitive. Maybe every girl spontaneously bursts into tears, and I’m just naturally privy to these moments. 

We’d just come back from a day out, a beautiful day in the French Quarter, walking cobblestone streets followed by the distant melody of a melancholy trumpet. I went and sat beside her but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. She dried her eyes and smoked a cigarette. We went downstairs to the bar. It was made to look like a carousel, the bar turned clockwise slowly. It made a complete rotation every hour. I got us some seats but she didn’t want to sit there.

We sipped our drinks by a big window that could have been a street entrance. Raindrops began to pound outside and the window was awash with a New Orleans drawn by Hopper. I couldn’t be happier, she finally said, but I wish I never realized it.

I reminded her of this six months later when she called to say goodbye. Since then I’ve been trying to forget, she told me. But you had to remember to forget, I said back, and hung up the phone.