As is he. See? There, behind her in the second row? The only boy without a tie. Two of a kind, they. For a while it worked. Then it didn’t. So she walked out
of the picture and down Fifth Avenue in her black shoes. She walked by the girl with the dark hair, cut dancer-style like a helmet. Walked past battalions of women, the million wonderful women in furs and crazy hats, the best clothes, the handsomest women, the neat girls with eyeglasses, the Jewish girls, the Italian girls, the Irish, Polack, Chinese, German, Negro, Spanish, Russian girls all on parade. They marched behind her, followed her into the bar on Eighth Street, ordered pretzels and Cointreau, pointed at her feet, Oooo, black suede shoes in summertime, Ooooo, farm hick, until the little Japanese waiter kicked every damn woman in the city of New York to the curb and then everything was all right.
Better than all right, actually. Everything was wonderful.
Last night she slept wound around him like a rope. Now, that’s an exquisite line, Irwin.
This morning, she got up from the table and walked lightly, almost smiling, because
they had slept late and had a good breakfast and it was Sunday.
He watched her walk, thinking, What a pretty girl, what nice legs, wondering, How she’d come by those red stilettos, fercrisake?
Ozzie Nogg © 2016