Okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic.
But only a little.
Henley didn’t bat an eye. She was too busy dismantling her own muffuletta with the ferocity of a starving lioness. “I can see that,” she mumbled around a mouthful of salami. “But don’t you think you’ll tire of eating these?”
The sandwich froze halfway to my mouth.
The very suggestion felt like a personal affront.
My eyes widened, a slight tremor of panic running through me. “I will never tire of eating a muffuletta. Never. It’s... it’s a culinary masterpiece! A symphony of flavor! A... a testament to the power of friendship and cured meats!”
I might have gotten slightly carried away.
Henley shook her head, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You’re ridiculous, but I get it. Food always seems to speak to your soul first and your stomach second.”
She had a point.
Food for me wasn’t just sustenance; it was an experience, a narrative, a whole darned theatrical production. My tastebuds were the critics, and my stomach was the cheering audience.
I grinned, leaning back, the crumbs of my divine sandwich clinging to my chin like edible glitter. “Soul food, Henley. It’s a religion here. And let me tell you, this muffuletta should be canonized. We should build a shrine. Offerings of provolone and giardiniera can be made at the altar.”
I paused, considering the logistics.
“Maybe we could have little muffuletta-shaped communion wafers.”
Henley burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet deli. “Oh, I’m already working on the hymn book,” she said, wiping a stray olive from her cheek. “It’s going to have a really catchy chorus about the glorious layers of this sandwich.”
We fell silent again, lost in the blissful task of devouring our heavenly sandwiches. The rhythmic crunching of bread andthe occasional contented sigh were the only sounds, a perfect soundtrack to this utterly ridiculous, completely satisfying, and profoundly muffuletta-centric moment. It was, I realized, a perfect example of why sometimes, the simplest pleasures in life were also the most profound. And sometimes, why a really, really good sandwich made everything okay.
Henley rolled her eyes dramatically. “What about Wade? Do sandwiches surpass his charm now?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Henley, Wade’s charm is in a whole different league. It’s not a fair comparison. Sandwiches don’t brood in leather jackets or fix your bike at two a.m. But”—I lifted my muffaletta—“this right here is a masterpiece of its own kind.”
Henley smirked as she wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Good to know Wade hasn’t been completely dethroned. But seriously, what’s next for you two? Are you still playing the ‘will they, won’t they’ game, or are you finally getting on the same page?”
The question hung in the air for a moment, and I set the sandwich down carefully, as though handling a delicate piece of art. “I don’t know, Hen. It’s like every time we’re about to turn a corner, something pulls us back to square one. It’s exhausting, but...” I trailed off, my mind circling back to last night—the way Wade’s hand lingered on mine, the quiet promise in his eyes that he would always be there, no matter how messy things got. “But maybe that’s just how we work. Messy but undeniable.”
Henley leaned forward, her gaze softening. “Messy isn’t bad, you know. Sometimes the best things in life are the ones you have to fight for. And if anyone can handle a little chaos, it’s you.”
I smiled, though the weight of her words settled deep in my chest. “Yeah, well, let’s hope you’re right. Wade and me? We’re on a long road, Henley. But I think we’re worth the trip.”
She raised her soda in a mock toast. “To messy roads and muffalettas. May they never disappoint.”
Clinking my glass against hers, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Amen to that.”
As the sounds of New Orleans filtered through the air, a rhythmic melody of horns and laughter carried on the wind, and I wondered if this was what my life would be like. Good food, lazy days, laughter, and just a whole lotta fun. Had to admit if it was, I wasn’t too heartbroken about it. There was something magical, relaxing about the way of life in New Orleans.
The streets seemed to hum with a life of their own, a sort of timeless energy that pulsed through the veins of the city. Every corner seemed to have a story to tell, whether it was in the soulful notes of a jazz band tucked into an old bar or the rich aromas of gumbo wafting from a kitchen window. It wasn’t just a place; it was an experience. A tapestry of culture, history, and joy, stitched together by the people who called it home.
I let myself get lost in it, savoring the slow unraveling of time, the way the minutes didn’t seem to matter here. And for the first time in what felt like ages, I wasn’t chasing a moment—I was living in one.
The French Quarter was a maze of enchantment, a kaleidoscope of color, sound, and movement as Henley and I wandered around the city. Balconies adorned with iron lace stretched above cobblestone streets, where revelers strolled with daiquiris in hand, their laughter mingling with the street performers’ melodies. Every shop window seemed to beckon us with mysterious trinkets and treasures, voodoo dolls perched beside handcrafted jewelry, and vintage postcards that whispered secrets of yesteryear.
As we wandered further, the Mississippi River came into view, its waters shimmering under the golden blush of the setting sun. A paddlewheel steamboat glided along its surface,a living relic of a bygone era, its white silhouette timeless against the amber glow. The gentle breeze carried with it the scent of beignets and powdered sugar from the nearby café, where patrons lingered, indulging in the sweet decadence of the moment.
I found myself drawn to the rhythm of the place, to its heartbeat—a city that thrived on revelry and resilience. And as the night crept on, New Orleans transformed once more, bathed in the soft light of gas lamps, its shadows dancing to the tune of footfalls and quiet conversation. Somehow, amidst the vibrant chaos, there was a profound serenity, a reminder that life didn’t have to be rushed.
It could be savored, cherished, celebrated.
