This Fish Needs A Bicycle

something more comfortable

I stand on Houston Street, the rain pulling at my wool-blend blazer.

He watches me catch the heel of my pale pink stiletto in a sewer grate and begins to raise his window. I let out a sigh of relief. This cabby does not care where I am going. He feels sorry enough for me, standing in the drizzle, that I’m willing to bet he’d drive me to the gas station on the next block if that’s what I wanted.

We’re equally lucky, though, I think as I tell him the address. It’s far, and I’m a very generous tipper.

The cab driver seems to put the car into auto-pilot as we make our way to the Upper East side. “It’s so early,” he says. “Your night is already over?”

“I’m tired,” I say. “And my feet hurt.”

“It is those shoes!” His accent is as thick as the fog around my brain. How many glasses of wine did I have?

I laugh. You’re damn straight, it’s the shoes.

I begin to have graphic fantasies about going home and taking off the offending articles. And once safely inside my apartment, I do just that. I start with the shoes and make my way up, dropping pieces of clothing as I make my way to the bedroom. A brief detour in the bathroom leaves my jeans draped over the shower curtain rod. I actually hang my bra on the coat rack in my tiny hallway.

So tired. So tipsy.

A pajama search would require too much effort, so I grab some lingerie from the inside of the closet door. I dress as I head to the living room to write about my evening. But the thoughts I’d had about sorority and femininity are all beginning to taste like sweet Riesling and I realize I am so very tired.

It will have to wait.

If you'll excuse me, I’m going to go slip into something more comfortable.

Like my bed.

Posted by This Fish at April 24, 2004 01:35 AM