The first time I saw her
she ordered a Caramel Macchiato.
Venti. No whipped cream.
And as the cashier turned away
I heard her say
how much her life sucked.
Under her breath
but all hard-edged
and tragic like a rusted
barbed wire fence
blocking your path.
I turned away and dove
into my screen, headphones playing nothing
but head bobbing
to non-existent music nonetheless
in a sad attempt
to create a private place
in that crowded space
where she vented.
She paid and waited
for her name to get called,
shifting her weight
from one foot to the next
while biting her lower lip.
She looked frail,
lost and lonely. Like nearly everybody
else in a city too big
for feelings, or connection,
as a line of yellow taxis
just past the front door trolled
the narrow streets
out looking
for a fare.
“Audrey?”
She weakly waved
and offered a fractured smile,
sweet and innocent.
Hopeful even.
Like a prayer for rain
on a hot summer day spent beneath
a deep blue sky
and blazing sun which bakes
your skin raw.
I watched her turn, cup
in hand as she slipped silently
through the glass door
on her way
to God knows where.
I ignored the next few texts
buzzing my phone,
wondering if she’d make
it home okay.
Or make it through
another long day
when you have too much time
on your hands
and no one to waste
it with.
The second time I saw her
was at O’Rourke’s on Fourth
late one Friday night
when I ducked
in from the rain to catch a game.
She stood near the bar
surrounded by a handful of hungry,
eager-looking suits
out looking to score.
Her red dress couldn’t conceal
the real reason
she was there
as she slurred her way
through a final round
of drinks.
The Mets were up
but it surely wouldn’t last.
And as the pitcher handed over the ball
and shuffled off the mound
she strutted
across the floor
with one lucky guy in tow.
“Later boys,”
she called out over a bare shoulder
one step from the door.
Then night swallowed her whole.
And only halfway
through a beer
my Friday night mirage
disappeared.
The last time I saw her was two
cold months ago
about a block
from “House of Suds” on laundry day.
With head bowed low
and slender, pale hands buried
deep in a black overcoat
she marched
the cracked cement
damn near on a collision course
with my full basket
of dirty clothes.
I stopped and stepped aside
as she approached,
no trace of her sad, sweet smile
this time.
When she was arms-reach away
I nodded, expecting
nothing, and got
exactly that in return.
After she passed
I allowed myself one final,
parting glance as she strode
the empty sidewalk
pounding out a cadence
with jackhammer efficiency.
And then she was gone.
Another lost and lonely angel
cast adrift
in a city chock-full of dreams.
Audrey, should this note
ever find its way
to your door,
I hope
it finds you well.
