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The city was familiar to him, comfortable, safe, like worn jeans and an old t-shirt on Saturday mornings.
The French Quarter can be a bi-polar bitch but this morning she was calm and her allure was in full bloom. The early morning, mid-week French Quarter is nothing like the tourist infested Bourbon Street that you see on tv. It is the early morning springtime Quarter that he fell in love with. Fighting with her alter ego on occasion was an occupational hazard of the love affair.

His relationship with the neighborhood was like that of a mistress. Occasionally she came home drunk and pissed off and other times you laid in bed with only her touch comforting you while the rest of the world moved along.

Inhaling deeply he could smell her with little effort. The ever-present aroma of salty sea air, french bread and the dirty steam leaving the pavement as morning turned to afternoon. It had only been a week and he was addicted to her. All of her. Her beauty, her flaws and even the demons he had yet to discover deep inside her.

Never in such a short period of time had he become so familiar and comfortable with a person or a place. He wore her with as a testament of who he had been and who he is.