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5.
Laura stood in her bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror, puckering her lips, applying her Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Couture Satin Lipstick. She’d gotten it from Sephora. Where else? She loved pulling out the rouge lipstick from the gold case with the black “YSL” engraved on it, then swiveling it to make it protrude.
It was 2PM. In one hour she was meeting her ex at Bottega. She really wasn’t sure why. She felt a mix of anticipation and dread. It was probably a bad idea. Why did that make it sound all the more fun? She tousled her hair, eyeing herself in the mirror, shrugging. Because he’s hot. God that sounded shallow. But wasn’t everybody that way? It wasn’t all about looks and money. But let’s face it: It didn’t hurt.
She looked good. Damn good, actually. She had dark eye-shadow on, Tarte Amazonian Clay blush on her cheeks. She wore her tight, short silver skirt which she knew Dylan loved. It was glittery. He could never resist that skirt. It was cut about six inches above her knees. Her slim, low-cut white silk blouse showcased her flat stomach, her nice C-cups. The skirt displayed her near-perfect ass, and her long legs. It made her look much taller than her 5’7. And then her curly, thick hair added to the overall effect. She laughed at her face in the mirror, throwing her head back: You vain bitch!
She left her apartment at 2:15. Bottega was only a few blocks away but she wanted to walk for a little before she met Dylan. She could turn some heads in the process. What could she say: She craved the attention. Men couldn’t resist. Biology worked in her favor. Internally, she chuckled: Women weren’t victims. They had an incredible amount of power. Sex was power. And they held that power like men held guns. And yet she also knew that her sexuality—her womanhood—could be exploited. It could be seen as a weakness, something predatory men could pounce on and take advantage of.
Outside, it was nice weather. She wore her facemask: A black velvet thing that said, LOVE IS THE ANSWER in white lettering across it. It was ridiculous. Her mom had mailed it to her. She wasn’t sure why. Probably as a joke. Her mom was sincere but liked to kid her daughter, too.
The first inkling of fall was in the air. A cool breeze blew, rustling her hair. Brown and red leaves were strewn along the curb. She passed all the usual liquor stores, pizza joints and restaurants. Some of them were closed. God: This fucking Pandemic. She tried not to think of it too often. She didn’t need to, really. She was white, young, well-off. Let’s face it: The virus mostly affected old people (Boomers) and minorities (black and brown people) and the poor (same). It was sad, of course. But…that was life, right? It was what it was. What could she do about it?
She took a right on 65th and headed west. Four blocks later—passing Lexington, Park, Madison—she arrived at 5th Ave, bordering Central Park. She waited for cars to stop so that she could cross onto the park side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Temple Emanu-El, and just north of that was the Bernard Museum, the world’s largest synagogue. The cars stopped and the white walk sign came on. She crossed. She was by the Tish Children’s Zoo. She headed north. She wished she had water. She was thirsty. Pulling her iPhone from her brown leather purse strapped over her shoulder, she checked the time. Nearly 2:30. The walk was short.
She wore her Tamara Mellon high-heel sandals. The heels clacked on the uneven stone along the park. She loved the Paris-like feel of the bumpy stone…but it wasn’t that practical for heels. Starting to get annoyed, and to think this whole thing was a bad idea, a man struck her sight.
The man was homeless, clearly. He sat on the ground, near a green bench, his back against the wall. She could smell him from twenty feet away. He had a thick, reddish-brown beard. Dark, tangled black hair. He wore a dirty yellow shirt. His jeans were ripped and dirty, his black hiking boots ancient and duct-taped. A small blue and gray messenger bag sat beside him. A half-filled bottle of water. Two things struck her as unusual: One, if you cut that hair of his, and trimmed the beard…his face wasn’t bad; he was actually sort of ruggedly handsome. That was weird. Rare. Homeless people were never attractive. Second, he was reading a thick book which she saw the cover of: The Collected Works of Leo Tolstoy. A dirty, but handsome, homeless intellectual? Strange. Intriguing.
As she was nearing him she felt a man’s eyes on her other side. She looked. An older guy, wearing bright orange shorts and orange Nike running shoes, with a paunch for a belly. He scanned her up and down and grinned like a fucking creep. Yeah, right, buddy. That was the other thing about men. So many weirdos, freaks and creeps. What was up with that? C’mon, guys: Act normal. The worst was online dating. She’d only done it once. But Mary, Mother of God. Men propositioned her constantly. Sent unsolicited “dick pics.” Called her “honey” and “sweetheart.” Ugh. The shit they said…reprehensible. What they would do when protected by anonymity and a screen. Fuckers. Again that thought: Why am I not a lesbian?
She looked away from the fat man who pretended to be a runner. He was one of those people; he could run for the rest of his life and he wouldn’t lose weight. Hopeless. He probably ate like an ape. God, she mocked herself, you’re such an asshole, Laura. Have some fucking compassion.
And there was the homeless guy. He, at least, was thin. Not skinny, but thin enough. And she saw that his arms were toned. Muscular. No tattoos. She didn’t like tattoos. They were low-class. She didn’t understand why they’d become so absurdly popular. Tattoos made her think of gangsters or else hipsters.
At last he glanced up from his book. His eyes startled her; they were the deepest, most intense green she’d ever seen. My God, they were green. Deep green. Forest green. Green like the jungle in Colombia, where she’d once been. For a tense moment they stared at each other. No one spoke. Did she want to speak to him? He was homeless. C’mon, Laura. Then she realized, as if stunned, that she had actually stopped. She was just standing there staring at this guy.
He gingerly placed a bookmark into his place and set the book down. His eyes never blinked, never looked away from hers. She blushed, averted her gaze. She felt the urge to keep walking. But she didn’t. She heard voices, people walking around her. She stood in the middle of the stone walk.
At last he said, “Got any money to spare?”
She didn’t move. Her heart, for some bizarre reason, was kicking like an unborn baby. She never gave money to homeless people.
She pulled back the gold zipper of her purse, scrounged for some change, only found two dimes and a nickel, and just snatched a crisp one dollar bill. She carefully stepped towards him. His smell wafted; that deep stink of trash and homeless body odor. The smell of someone when they haven’t showered in weeks. Disgusting. And yet.
“Here,” she said, staying at arm’s-length. She handed him the dollar.
He took it, never averting his eyes from hers the whole time.
Slinging her purse back over her shoulder, like a soldier with a rifle, she kept walking north along the park, her heels clacking, the sound crazily loud in her head.