Mariposa
As the sun came up, I gave the waitress a slim tip at the all-night diner I sat at. She was nice enough to let me stay the night, continually filling my cup, so I didn’t have to sleep on the street. She even brought me a piece of apple pie that tasted like it was over two weeks old, but since I hadn’t had anything for a while, it was the best thing in the world.
Maybe she felt sorry for me because I was all busted up. Bloody nose, puffy eye and lip, pieces of wall stuck in my hair. A bruise would soon come up on my forehead. It was sore to the touch and swollen. Even though it would only draw more attention, I set my hair back with the butterfly clip in my bag to get it off of my face.
Vera. She had saved my life. The thought made my eyes water, but I sniffed up the emotions, refusing to let a tear fall. Crying got you nowhere. It helped nothing.
After stepping outside, I stuck my tennis shoes in my bag and slipped on my dollar pair of flip-flops. The size of these were perfect, but I didn’t wear them often because,one, I didn’t want to ruin them, andtwo, they caused severe blisters between my big and second toe. But they protected my feet and I was glad to have them.
I was glad to have Journey back, too. I spent most of the night writing things down between the pages. I even drew a picture of Vera and her pot to remember her by. The rest of the time I colored in my children’s coloring book. There was something really relaxing about coloring all of those princesses and bringing them to life.
A guy walking down the street bumped me and pushed me back a step. He had earphones in and wasn’t paying attention, but the hit made me feel the fight from last night.
It was going to be a long day.
Not having anywhere to go, or anyone to see, I let my feet take me in whatever direction they wanted to go. I took the ferry to Staten Island, and after walking around for a bit, I made my way back. A few markets/a stroll by Broadway/getting lost in the crowds at Time Square-later, I was back at the five-star restaurant, Macchiavello’s.
Dinner rush. There must’ve been a dress code, because not one person was dressed in jeans. Rich perfumes and fine colognes lingered from down the street. It sort of masked the fact that New York was scalding and the dumpsters were baking. Sweat coated my skin, and I felt crusted in it. Hopefully, the rich scents would mask my scent, too.
This time I didn’t stare in the window but kept my distance. I leaned against the wall, watching as people came and went. I was bored out of my mind, so I toyed with the idea of going to the library. Sometimes I hung out there and read all day. But my feet were hurting (all of me was, actually), and the thought of sitting down for a bit and coloring seemed more appealing. Then I’d go to the shelter before they ran out of beds.
After taking out my supplies, I started to color a picture of a young girl with a cloak on talking to a mean wolf. Some time passed by, because the weather started to feel a little cooler. Setting my blue color down to dab at an itchy spot on my injured nose, I happened to look up.
My eyes narrowed on the same scenario from the day before. Smart Mouth hustled to open the door to the restaurant for the guy in the suit, but instead of going in, he watched me. I lifted one eye, not able to open the other the entire way.
It was hard to look away. When he looked at me, I felt trapped, cornered, not able to move an inch. But in an odd way, it didn’t bother me as much as it should. I realized then that I didn’t feel judged by him becausehewas judging me, but because I was judgingmyselfin his presence, wondering how I measured up.
Merv was right. I wasn’t the prettiest thing to grace the earth. My hair was a dull brown, my eyes hazel—my DNA couldn’t decide between gold, green, and brown—and my nose…well, I was told by a kid in the old neighborhood that I had what his mother called a “whopper schnozzola.”
Jocelyn had told me not to worry about what the kid had said. He didn’t know shit, just like his mom didn’t know if his dad was the barman or her husband.
Jocelyn had said that I had an aquiline nose, or sometimes people called it a “Roman nose.” It was beautiful and it fit my face, she had said. She went as far as calling my profile “regal.” She even brought me to the library to look at pictures. I had to admit that, compared to some, I had a good Roman nose, one that seemed right for my face, but it was still different.
At least my skin was clear. Well, when it wasn’t bruised.
What does the guy in the suit think about my nose?After a second, I blinked, bringing myself back to the moment. Unconsciously, I had been stroking the bridge of it, calling attention to my thoughts.
What in the hell was going on with me? Why would I even think about it, or much less care?
I still didn’t look away, though, and neither did he. Not until something made him turn to look. An unmarked car cruised down the street. It seemed like it was heading toward the restaurant. A second later, the man in the suit disappeared behind the door with Smart Mouth on his heels. I got the strangest feeling then that maybe the man in the suit hadn’t wanted to leave, but had to.
Was he going to talk to me?I couldn’t even explain why I thought that.
Then I started to laugh. I laughed while I packed up my things, preparing to go to the shelter. It was so ridiculous,himcoming to talk tome. He was probably assessing me, trying to figure out if I was going to become a problem. If he even remembered me. Maybe he was trying to place me.
My fingers stilled when I noticed the piece of pottery at the bottom of my bag. I turned it over in my hand for a second, admiring the butterfly I’d drawn. I had wanted to up Vera’s living space and had drawn a few things on her pot. The butterfly was my favorite. I always admired things that had to struggle to find beauty in life.
If only we all could be so lucky to find our beauty, our peace, our purpose before we left this earth.
The piece landed at the bottom of my bag again, and after zipping up, I stood, brushing some dirt from my hands on my jeans.
A tall man in another pricey-looking suit came out of the restaurant’s door, going straight for the unmarked car. Two detectives got out, and the man met them before they made it to the door.
I could hear snippets of the conversation, but not much. The tall man had a strong Italian accent. It sounded like he was explaining to the detectives that the man they’d asked to see wasn’t there, and if they had any more questions, they should contact his lawyer first.
For a minute, I thought that maybe they’d called the cops on me, but common sense kicked in. I doubted detectives would be called out for someone who sat against the building and colored most of the evening.
Not wanting to get caught up in any kind of trouble, because I was already in my own kind of hell, I decided to leave.
