flowing pinup-girl waves. I’m rocking smokey eye makeup and coral lip gloss and big hoop earrings. I plan to strut past his gorgeousness and ignore him completely.
That’ll learn him.
I give myself a quick glance in the gilt-framed mirror that leans against the exposed brick wall, and nod in approval. That mirror is one of my favorite sidewalk finds ever. You’d better believe I blogged about it.
“What say you, Xena?” I do a little twirl, and my consignment store Oscar De La Renta dress swirls around my thighs. It’s green floral-print rayon with a ruffled hem, and thanks to my sewing kit, now has a sweetheart neckline edged in lace. I’m constitutionally unable to leave clothes in their natural state. I’ve paired it with adorable chunky low-heeled boots. “Am I hot, or am I hot?”
Xena is a wiry-haired black-and-white mutt who weighs about thirty pounds and looks like she was assembled from spare parts. Her legs are too short, her tail has a kink in it, and her left ear stands at attention while her right ear flops lazily to the side.
She yawns, rolls over, and turns her back on me.
“Jeez. Tough room.”
This earns me one tail thump.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You chewed up my favorite boots – you could make up for it by pretending to be dazzled.”
She heaves a melodramatic sigh and starts snoring.
She probably doesn’t want to get too attached. The poor thing’s been passed around like a bottle of Jack at a frat party. Xena was found wandering the streets, depressed and skinny and covered with fleas. First she was taken in by a guy who lives a few buildings down, but she didn’t get along with his cat. The next three placements didn’t work out because of her tendency to chew anything that isn’t nailed down. The lady who was fostering her was ready to send her to the pound.
There’s an unofficial emergency network in our neighborhood, and they have my number. Boy, do they have my number. I am known as the official Hell’s Kitchen softie, which is how I ended up with Xena.
Lucky for me, Isabella loves dogs too. Unluckily for both of us, the building prohibits dogs. Isabella and I lean heavily on friends up and down the block to hide her for us when the landlord’s around.
I glance down at Xena. “All right, I’ve got to run. Stay sweet now.” My accent comes out when I say that.
Xena makes no promises. Her lips flutter and her paws twitch as she chases squirrels in her dreams.
I grab my slouchy hobo purse from the bed and hurry off, pausing on the doorstep to turn my multiple door locks. The neighborhood is mostly gentrified these days, but you can never be too careful.
When I glance at my watch, my stomach does a nervous little flutter. Assembling my outfit took more time than I’d expected. I’ve called a cab, and it’s due in fifteen minutes.
I run down three flights of stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator. As I step into the lobby, I’m confronted by the sight of my neighbor Edna. She’s the one who recommended me for the position at Hudson’s; she’s got some connection in the personal shoppers’ department there.
She’s ninety if she’s a day, and she’s trying to wrestle with a package that’s roughly as tall as she is. I can just make out the white dandelion puff of her hair from behind the box. “Whoa, Nelly!” she cries out as the box tips perilously.
I desperately scan the lobby for our doorman, but he’s nowhere in sight. That happens a lot when packages are delivered.
Oh, horsefeathers. “Let me get that for you, Edna!” I call out.
“Winona!” Her round face lights up in a smile, disappearing into a million creases as I hurry over to her. “You’re a life-saver!”
“It’s nothing.” I crouch down to lift the box. “Oof. What do you have in here? A body?”
“A small one. Don’t tell.” She winks at me, trotting alongside me as I maneuver my way to the elevator.
We make it up to her apartment, and I haul the package in through the front door. She’s lived here for fifty years, and the apartment is crammed with tchotchkes from floor to ceiling. Porcelain statuettes, vases full of plastic flowers, an impressive collection of decorative salt and pepper shakers…she could open her own knick-knack store. The sweet, heavy scent of her perfume tickles my nostrils, comforting in its familiarity. She smells like everyone’s grandmother.