She was already there, peeking from the side stairs, smoothing her spotless black dress with the gestures of a housewife. It would have been impossible for me to tell wether she was nervous or not. Checking the sole of her right high heel shoe and wearing neat gloves, small tight gloves, just like the clouds at Cape Cod that gentle morning, though the bay was slightly far away. I couldn’t see her face yet.
A wood stone road was insinuating the way. Her manners, the way she followed it… like a heron walks into the marsh waters, like a 50’s wife entering the kitchen to fix coffee for her man; ease, simpleness, total domain. She welcomes everyone, as if she was the first to get there, even though she was the last, and open her arms. The thread is threaded to the needle. Her feathered picture hat rises. The longings of a lost in the Atlantic tribe move at the speed of the clouds. White flesh in black dress, red lipstick framing squared pearls, head swinging left to right. A hat falls, a middle aged man holds his neck with both hands, a young one adjusts his sun glasses, a woman breezily marks the cardinal points with her hips, a guy takes a puff and holds the smoke for a while. The needle is floating in candor, people stare skeptically when the trumpet breaks up. Three shoulders start waving, five gloves begin to clap. She’s already slapping the air with open palms, closing some witnesses' eyes.
I was resting my back, bending a knee, one sole standing on the grass, one heel pasted to the wall. My life's purposes were summed up in tracing an S with that grey tube skirt. To follow her thread till the needle prickled me, that was all. It has been said I knocked them dead when I landed in town. I myself can’t tell, you know I don’t lie… much.
