Well, that about sums up my week. Actually I am bouncing between # 5 and 6. The process has been brutal and I have had a few hissy fits along the way, but the result is I am much happier with the intro to “Flower Girl.” Here it is:
“Too black,” Tracy announces to her own reflection. She pulls off her boots and puts on a red pair, then checks herself from another angle and nods approval. It is just the punch of color the ensemble needs. She wants to make a good impression without looking like she tried too hard, a precarious balancing act.
Her motivation for joining a writer’s group was to meet with like-minded individuals and get help with her book, but you never know. The potential to meet a single male was certainly greater than at the flower shop. The black vintage dress was hemmed short enough to expose her long legs and give a peak at the tattoo on her right thigh, a typewriter with two birds pulling at the sheet of protruding paper. An observant eye would notice the word “Writer” on the page, an affirmation since Tracy considers herself a novice.
She walks to the subway station and curses herself for forgetting to bring a book, her cardinal rule for avoiding the attention of strangers. “Nice tat,” a guy says as soon as she enters the train. To Tracy, this is the modern version of “Hey baby, what’s your sign?” She pulls out a copy of her own manuscript to hide behind.
“Watcha’ studying?” he asks.
Tracy looks up over the frames of her glasses and answers, “An essay on modern capitalism as seen through the lens of feminist-philosophy,” knowing if she admits, “My own book about an aging hooker trying to earn a living,” she would never get rid of him.
“Oh, an intellectual,” he grins, revealing a chipped front tooth, his face far too close for Tracy’s liking. “I like smart girls.”
“Oh yeah? Me too.” Tracy replied, resorting to the lesbian card.
The guy drew his head back and looked confused for a moment, then a crooked grin grew across his face, “Oh yeah? Do you bat for both teams?”
“Nope,” Tracy answered simply, not wishing to continue the conversation.
The sports fan shook his head and mumbled, “Muff diver” under his breath and moved away; a small price to pay for solitude on a New York Subway.