Cityscapes

I wear a lace dress with a yellow lining, champagne nail polish, Chanel red lipstick. My hair has been freshly bleached and my earrings are vintage. I’m in the lobby of a famous hotel, looking at my phone, and two men walk by (both in suits – it’s a rule here, men have to wear suit jackets, in order to eat in any of the hotel restaurants).

One says, “Hello, I am Derek.”

I say, “Hello.”

He says, “This is my son, Derek.”

I say, “Hello,” again.

The second Derek looks uncomfortable. When I shake his hand, it feels like he’s been holding the same can of frozen Pepsi for days. Also, he is not making eye contact. This is when I realize that Derek and second Derek think that I am a prostitute.

My phone rings. “It’s Marvin,” I smack my lips and roll my eyes. “He always gets so angry when I don’t check in with him between appointments.” I let the last word linger so that they can get the picture.

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