A meeting

BLUE JEANS BLUES

 

What a sight! Tight really tight blue jeans expose her belly button in the front and the crack in her back. Our gang dribbles. I cough and almost choke on the excitement. Johnny Q.  whistles and the dish turns full face to us. Our spirits turn into ice cubes. Her nose is long, crooked, surely broken at least once. Lips, red as just spilled blood, are not kissable. We guys walk faster, get a few steps ahead of her and hear cuss words as foul as any sailor would ever use.

 

Slight pangs of guilt and regret slow me down. I wait for her to catch up to me, apologize, but she ignores me,  decides to cross Holly St. catty corner. Brakes screech, tires smoke while Red Lips makes it unscathed to the other side. She is untouched, doesn't seem to realize how close she came to being a messy pancake.

 

Sure of my ability to go undetected, I hug the wall of the stores but she sees me. Tight jeans stops abruptly, waits in front of the Croisantery, wiggles her fingers at me and invites me inside. My head strongly shaking 'no' upsets her and her vile cussing upsets me. Nevertheless, I am intrigued and, perhaps foolishly, pull up an old fashioned ice cream chair and introduce myself. 'I'm Wally,' is all I get out of my mouth before she tells me her name in Florence Klutz. 'Klutz, your name is really Klutz?', I ask. 'No, it is really Katz but I am so clumsy, my parents use the Jewish word for me. I trip often, twice I burned myself on a easy to use toaster oven, fell over my own feet when I was ten and broke my nose. And I almost got run-over today.'

 

I say silly things like 'tsk, tsk,' 'oh, no.' My eyes wander down her blouse and she gives me a dirty look. ' Florence, why do you wear such horrible red lipstick?' Before she answers, she pulls at least ten paper napkins out of the holder on our small table and wipes her lips down to their normal color of soft pink. A fat waitress finally shows up at our table. I'm not hungry but order a raisin croissant, very lightly toasted and a cup of steamy hot cocoa. 'Sprinkle a little cinnamon on it, will you please?' 'What would you like, Florence?' She seems astonished, surprised,  thinks a minute and comes up with, 'Make that two.' While we wait I ask more questions. 'Why do you use such un-lady like ugly language?' 'Because I damn well, f'n want to, that's why.'

 

Our hot cocoa without the cinnamon takes fifteen minutes to get to us. Florence uses several of her cuss words, but lifts the hot drink to her pink lips, and drops the cup. The hot drink goes down her chin, down her blouse and she starts to cry. Florence stands, puts two dollars on our table, and waves goodbye to me.

 

I wave  back and call after her, 'See you around soon, Klutz.'