Lady of the
Evening
by Paul Perroni
I've been
waiting for hours. The click of the belt and
squeak of the opening door sing, and at last, I
see freedom. Well, minimal freedom. I race down
the winding cement staircase and leap onto the
cool pavement. Skipper reins me in as my cold,
wet nose greets a slight breeze and I take in the
scent of the landscape. The perfume of a chicken
pot pie baking lingers in the open air. Children
playing roller hockey kick off their skates, cut
through a conference of fireflies, and run over a
freshly clipped yard to greet their parents;
those poor working stiffs attempt to maintain an
expression of joy as they putter into the
driveway. My eyes land upon little Matthew
landing in the arms of his father, Charlie. Poor
Charlie; as I was taking a leak one evening, I
overheard Charlie rambling to Skipper of his
working 10 hours a day at a corporate desk and
had 5 different supervisors. "It's complete
bullshit," Charlie said.
A faint
chattering buzzes in the air as we loop around
Whispering Wind Way; a cocktail gathering at my
favorite joint across Main Street. I hope she's
there. I shiver in excitement at the thought,
tugging and pulling at Skipper like a work horse
strapped to a cart full of whiskey, glaring back
at him and thinking to myself: don't forget whose
walk this is, asshole. I search around for the
perfect spot, and at last, discover an untouched
area. I study and circle it like a hawk, then
begin: I drop my backside and my hind legs shake.
At that moment, people begin collecting on the
cul-de-sac with beers in hand, laughing and
visiting; a car passing flips on its headlights;
the light is too distracting; I feel like an
actor in the spotlight ready to deliver a
Shakespearean monologue, but nothing comes out,
the stage fright is killing me! I give up, lift
my backside and trot along: tugging and pulling.
We cross
around the cul-de-sac and disappear towards Main
Street, arriving at Solche & Dux. It's a
classy joint, with outdoor seating shaped in a
"S" pattern swooping across the front,
and brilliant lights twinkling against the light
of the moon. Skipper ties me to the table leg,
strokes my head and tells me to "stay."
I hate when he says that, especially in this
situation. I look down, then back up at him,
thinking: where the fuck am I going to go? You
tied me to a table. Then...she appears. She wears
a black dress that is absolutely stunning, even
more so against the background of the moonlight,
which seems to usher her into my gaze. My eyes
lock in on her legs; legs that connect to a
swagger in her stride that's full of confidence
and spark. And her laugh; it travels in the air
and rings through the beams of light like a
fighting bell. Sometimes, she'll touch me behind
the ear, my left ear, speak softly and let out
that beautiful laugh. I needed her at the cul-de-sac
earlier; I would have been so at peace and
relaxed. I would have released and it would have
been perfect. My eyes open wide as she approaches.
Oh, shit.
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