Monday, May 6, 2013

Sometimes a Cigar is a Cigar

          Kathy stood at the bus stop, pacing. Her hips swayed to the rhythm of her thoughts, oblivious to the car that pulled up slowly to the curb. She looked straight ahead and tried not to appear startled when the horn honked, but it was no use. She felt the skin on her body vibrate and wondered if he--she  was sure it was a he--noticed, too. Curiosity beckoned Kathy to look over at the car. In the time it took to blink her eye, Kathy saw an overweight, over-aged white guy in a black suit, white dress shirt and thin black tie. He looked like a relic from the 1950's version of "Death of a Salesman" or one of the Blues Brothers. His thinly covered bald head was glistening with sweat.  Practically laying down as he leaned on his right forearm, she wondered why his black glasses hadn't slipped farther down his nose.  It was three in the afternoon and Kathy was nervous.  In her car, she felt confident wearing her bootie shorts.  Standing on the bus stop in her cutest leggings EVER, she was sure she was hot, but right now she didn't want to be.  In this outfit there was no room for self-doubt, so Kathy got angry.   TO BE CONTINUED . . . . .

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