The French Word For Swamp.

I am meeting a woman named Marais for lunch today. I normally have lunch on Wednesdays with the Masseuse. I am two-timing the Masseuse. I thought she was out of town. I wish I had known beforehand that she would be back in New Orleans today. I could use a rub-down.

Instead, I made plans to meet this woman named Marais. We are similar ages, which should make today more interesting than usual, for me at least. As a cunning linguist, I enjoy the art of conversation. I enjoy talking with people.

Marais is the French word for swamp. There is a Marais Street. It crosses Japonica Street in Desire, where the old stray dog kennel used to be before the city moved it to Algiers.

*****

Time has passed. I had a nice lunch. As I told the Widow (who also popped onto the scene) that yesterday was an embarrassment of riches.

The artist, Marais, she pulled a spoonerism on me today. It was sweetly parlayed. She did it on purpose.

Someone recently told me that my life is a fairy tale. Far from it. I live in New Orleans.

Mrs. King’s life, now that is the fairy tale! —Well, except for the parts when she puts up with me.

What was I talking about? Ah, yes. CC’s Coffee House.