I love the orange glow of the streetlamps on the broken pavement and the dripping of window units onto sidewalks between houses. I love violent rainstorms filling the potholes so no one can tell how deep they are (they're fucking deep). I love the laundromats and the fried chicken gas stations and the swarms of mayflies and termites that come in June. I love the cemeteries and the blighted buildings and the courtyards and hidden things. The way we hang all our excesses and souvenirs and scars and spare paint all over the walls of our bedrooms, scattered across battered wood floors that have been sanded and refinished at least a dozen times. I love the lines in buildings where the barge-wood clapboards have been pieced together with plywood and pressed pine and old nails.
I love New Orleans.
And she loves me back.