A Woman’s Walk

Whenever Thalia went out, everybody stared. Right from the moment she stepped out of her apartment and into the hallway, the spyglass on the door opposite would darken. Somebody was watching; no doubt it was the nosey middle-aged woman who occupied it. It happened every time to be a coincidence. Thalia paid no mind; the old lady was as harmless as they came.

On the ground floor when Thalia was leaving the elevator, Mr. McCabe from 4b was always waiting to enter it.  Always. In his hand were some envelopes from the mail. Did he get letters every day? And why did he usually check his mail the same time every morning? These were questions she had asked herself in the early days, until she noticed he had the same stack of envelopes in his hand every time; same colour same date. He didn’t even bother to change them. She let his ruse slide but often wondered what his excuse to Mrs. McCabe was.

“Hello Thalia, going to court?” He asked, ogling at her.

“Yes Mr. McCabe”

“Knock ‘em dead. The other attorneys’ got nothin’ on you.”

She smiled as the elevator closed behind her, leaving him to bask in the scent of her Womanity™ perfume. How he came to the conclusion that she worked in a court beat her. Out in the street, the Manhattan cold wind blew in her face and she drew her Donna Karan coat tightly around her. Its cashmere feel was perfect for this weather. Once again she drew several stares from men and women as she walked past. She was used to that by now.

A hobo stretched out his hand at her, perhaps for some spare change. Thalia ignored him; she had lived in New York long enough to recognize innocuous types like him. She walked on, crossing the street and taking a right to the Starbucks store along 7^th Avenue. There wasn’t a long queue and in a few minutes, the barista handed her a cup- her usual peppermint mocha. It was wrapped in brown paper bag because of the heat. He needn’t have bothered, she was wearing leather gloves. She took one sip and frowned. As usual American coffee lacked that rich black flavor traditional Mexican-Americans like her were used to.

She looked at her Omega Lady-matic; it was 7:28am. She was just in time for her train. The subway was filled with several commuters going to wherever. She avoided a piece of gum on the tarmac which would have ruined her expensive red-bottomed pumps. Inside the train, she was happy to find a vacant seat right in the center. She soon settled in and began to read a magazine. Her Birkin purse was on her lap, she refused to place it on the floor like other women did their cheap bags.

The train was now full and ready to leave. It was the Seventh Avenue Line heading for Downtown Brooklyn. She pretended to study her magazine, fully aware of other passengers around her. Most commuting New Yorkers knew to keep their eyes busy and not stare blatantly at other passengers; it was an unwritten rule. However now and then Thalia would look up deliberately and catch one or two spectators who would quickly avert their gaze. This always amused her; once a man got into trouble with his wife for staring at her.

As the train left the station, Thalia caught her reflection in its glass-doors opposite. She could see what the fuss was about. She was stunning and she knew it. Her long wavy dark hair fell past her shoulders. Her lips were a dark mauve shade thanks to the MAC collection she bought last Christmas. Even though her skirt was almost knee length, her long legs always attracted more attention than was necessary. She wasn’t just stunning, she was sophisticated- and she always dressed the part.

                                                                          LIDIYAOSTAFIYCHUK 

The train ride lasted a little over twenty minutes. She got off at her stop, leaving in her wake, a trail of exotic perfume and several stares behind her. Once, she turned back to acknowledge her small kingdom of admirers which included both men and women. She loved it- in fact it thrilled her. Outside the station she hailed a cab to Brownsville, East New York.

Inside the taxi, she proceeded to perform her usual ritual. First she got out a plastic bag from her purse, removed her Louboutin heels and exchanged them for a pair of nondescript flat sneakers. Ah, the relief she sighed. Then she took out a clasp and did her long hair in a conservative bun. A few times she caught the driver watching in the rear view mirror but she couldn’t care less.

Next, she took out a blotting paper and dabbed her lips on it to reduce the intensity of her lipstick. She did the same to her makeup. Minutes later she was as plain as the girl next door. They soon got to a less busy part of town; this neighborhood was strewn with warehouses and broken down incomplete buildings- a completely different and seedy side of New York.

Thalia paid her fare to the bemused cab driver and left him to his thoughts. He would have a lot of that. She strolled inside town, much easily now on her sneakers. A couple of kids played hopscotch on the sidewalk and some guys tossed dice in front of their tenement building. She walked till she got to a large seemingly abandoned warehouse branded Maryvale Courts [the ‘S’ was missing]. Thalia smiled, in a way you could say she worked in a court after all.

Inside the warehouse was extremely busy, far from its abandoned look on the outside. Three guys were offloading cargo from a truck; the body paint on it read ‘Scrap Metal’. Thalia knew the items were not scrap metal. However, some men in greasy jumpers appeared to be polishing metal scraps in a section of the building. It was all a ruse. These man had also hidden sub-machine guns within easy reach. She reported at the adjacent entrance and signed off an attendance register before proceeding to an inner room. There, a woman with a body scanner was waiting.

Thalia declared her possessions before a caretaker and stripped to her underwear; bra and panties. The woman scanned her for extra items and cleared her to pass. She would retrieve them later at the close of work. Further inside the building, Thalia joined four other women- including two immigrants who spoke little English. Together they sat in their underwear and counted stacks of raw cash which formed the proceeds of Don Carlos’ daily sales of heroin. At the moment there were five huge bales of uncounted cash.

The time was almost 8:30am. Thalia grabbed a bundle of cash from the bale in front of her and ran it through the De La Rue machine watching keenly as the digits added up. It was going to be a very busy day.

The End.

PSA: Histrionic Personality Disorder- HPD is real. If you know somebody close to you who may be suffering from it, please contact the relevant support groups.