I slept late the next morning. On arising, I made some
coffee and opened the sliding door in the bedroom. I walked onto the patio. The spring sun was casting
nice shadows along the river and I pulled up a chair. I must
have made a noise, for someone spoke from the adjacent patio.
“Did we finally wake up?” a familiar voice said.
I walked to the partition and peeked around. My neighbor was
in a deck chair with a book in her hand. She wore shorts and a loose blouse, partially buttoned and revealing the fact that she hadn’t bothered with a bra this morning. She looked
quite content. I tried not to stare.
“Morning,” I said.
“Nearer to afternoon,” she said.
“Aren’t weekends for sleeping late?”
“For whatever. How are you making out with your would-be
girlfriend?”
“Would that be your sister’s friend, what’s her name?”
“Well it wouldn’t be Elizabeth Taylor. Stick around, she’ll be
here this afternoon.”
We discussed life for a while, then I went back inside, showered
and dressed in an old pair of Seafarer Jeans, a green t-shirt, and tennis shoes,
all left over from my Navy days.
Back then, there was a fast-food called Burger Chef a mile
or so up Cantrell in an area known as “Riverdale.” In addition to the fast-food,
there was a large drive-in cinema where, it was rumored, a significant portion of
the Baby-Boomers then living in Little Rock had begun their worldly existence.
I parked and went inside the fast-food. I purchased a cheeseburger,
fries, and a large Coke, my cure for a mild hangover. As I weeded past the
partially occupied tables, toward the door, a figure stopped me, placing a hand
on my arm. It was a woman, dressed fit to kill and smiling. “Morning,” she
said.
My mind raced. I looked at her. As I say, she was stunningly
attractive but not my type. She had short gray-tinted hair, bright eyes, and a
heavily made-up oval face augmented with sparkling lipstick. She wore
a severe black outfit that must have been fitted on her while she was standing.
A white blouse with a large collar softened the effect from severe to sensual.
Did I mention that she was quite beautiful? She was, but the
exact opposite of my free-spirited dream girl, the Redhead. She gave off a slightly
familiar aura, but as hard as I racked my brain, I couldn’t remember her. I
thought, “Please don’t let her be a client’s wife or daughter.”
She smiled and her hazel eyes flashed. “You don’t know who I
am, do you?”
I said nothing, but thought, “No, who the hell are you?”
“The last time you saw me, I had long red hair.”
Jumpin’ Jehosaphat! I was talking to my goddess, or her worldly
twin sister.
“It was the wig, wasn’t it?” she said, tilting her head in
fun.
 |
| Oh dear. |
I said nothing.
“Maybe the suit? I hate to wear them.”
An attempt to respond just produced a raspy whisper.
“I’ve been to a funeral.”
“Hello.”
“I played the piano.”
“That’s nice.”
“Thought I’d grab a bite on the way back to the apartment.”
“Me too. I mean I drove down for lunch.” I held up my
purchase as if to prove it. “I live alone and don’t cook.”
What on Earth was coming over me? Was I incapable of making
sense?
“I need to get out of this dress and this wig,” she said.
“That would be nice.” Lord, it was getting worse.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so.” At last, a brief flash of non-stupid.
I started to move. She touched my arm again and a shock shot through my body, stopping
me in mid-stride.”
She tilted her face up toward mine. She wasn’t as tall
as I. “Rita tells me,” she said, “that you do urban planning.”
“No. I mean yes. I mean I’m learning the business. I mean
yes, that’s right.”
“Then do something about this traffic on Cantrell, won’t you?
It’s a pain in the ass trying to get out in the morning.”
With that, and before I could answer, she eased around me
and headed toward the counter. I turned toward her.
Even though she would have found it difficult to sashay in that outfit, every man in the place was watching her.
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