Magic Somehow

EXIT

 

Her arms look old, wrinkled. She pretends she doesn't notice me staring at her, gently pulls her navy blue cardigan sleeves down to her fingertips. I feel like a slithering snake waiting to grab a little mouse as it runs thru the tall saw grass. Yet, I cannot stop glancing at her, mesmerized by the beautiful lady with old arms. How could I not stare at this wingless angel? Her face so soft, creamy smooth. It is the background that makes her amethyst eyes glow. They send a silent, imaginary message of love to me. 

 

For a foolish moment I have a gnawing desire to speak to her and take a single tentative step in her direction. I stop as she picks up her basket of daisies and turns her back to me. How easily she walks, almost floats towards the empty bandstand in Central Park. Dare I follow her? I have no choice. Her magnetism pulls me but I am careful not to intrude, frighten her and sit a few minutes on the first battered green bench along the path. After my second 'rest' I watch her stop at the small kiosk, just a dozen or so yards from the bandstand, where she buys a cola and a movie magazine. Just standing there, magazine under her arm, slowly she sips her drink, and drops the empty cup, along with the unread mag into the trash.

 

Time crawls. I give her five minutes head start before I trail her. My guess seems right. As we near the empty bandstand, she hesitates, walks more slowly, while I linger behind a giant elm tree. The gazebo that protects the visitors from the heat, the rain, has a new coat of white paint. Makes me remember old Andy Hardy movies. I'm Mickey Rooney. The lady before me is Judy Garland and I have a crush on her. She's my Polly! Polly puts her basket of daisies on the bandstand, walks up the wooden steps, takes off her cardigan and starts to sing, except no sound comes out of her mouth. That doesn't stop her. She dances around, almost falls off the stage, and silently sings her heart out. This is just like Andy and Polly giving a show, becoming big shots, the stars. I can see it in her teary amethyst eyes, the way she smooths her wrinkled arms. Buried ambitions raise their horned heads. It is an unbearable situation that needs rectifying. Polly slows down to breathe and I show myself by applauding. Before she can run away in fear, I take her waist, hold her hand and dance with her. She follows my lead just as if she hears what I hear. The band is playing, 'My Blue Heaven.'
I can't carry a tune but it doesn't matter. I sing, 'Just Polly and me, and baby make three.' We stop. We smile. I help her down from the platform where we part company.

 

Odd, her arms  felt smooth, soft, tender while we danced.