Rent, Revisited. Or, When My Best Boy Used His French Studies to Become a Trophy Wife.

One night, a matter of months ago, I stood on an awkward, quasi-suburban corner in scuffed white stilettos and a decorative jacket.  It was night time, and I was waiting for a friend to come pick me up.  I had just finished watching someone silently read 33 pages of filth from across a public room.  Having realized that he had finished the best part, I got up and left without saying anything other than turning my stare to drop, frankly, between his legs as I left.

After walking a number of blocks I found myself, there, on that corner, feeling slightly shocked at the contrast of the high ceilings one could see looking in through the streak-less windows of the houses in this neighborhood, and the unprofessionally painted polish on my fingertips.   It was the kind of corner that makes you look up into the trees, then left to right so as not to call attention. Then finally, at your feet, then down the street in an attempt to look like you are supposed to be there, or are simply casually passing the time.

As I stood there, I saw a woman walking down the sidewalk towards me with what looked to be a waist-tall poodle on a leash.  She was 48, I would guess. Well manicured. I guess that's what one says.  Whatever the appropriate term is for a woman whose hair looked perfectly trimmed, and hands lotion'ed so as to not show their age- a petite gold bracelet resting delicately on the bone of her wrist.

The dog was pulling her, and I was watching her try to maintain her grace of walk. She wore white slacks and the flat, almost ballerina type shoes that women who do not engage in any type of physical work tend to wear.

I looked around as if to find a bush to dive into, but there was nothing. I was basically standing on the corner of someone's lawn.

I realized it was strange to just be standing on this corner but, determined not to give that away on my face, I stood up taller and pointed my chin out slightly.

"Oh, I love your shoes!", she said.  "I used to have a pair just like them."

She went on.  Complimenting bits of my outfit. Trying to connect, somehow.  I can't remember what she said, only what it felt like.

She seemed friendly.

Well-provided-for.

Lonely.

She wrestled with the dog a bit more and starting calling out commands in a language I didn't know.

She grabbed the dog's face to make it look at her as she commanded it, nose to nose, using the same language.  Then, giving up, shook her head.

"She only understands French", she explained, with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.





(image: via pocketfull-o-posey tumblr)