The young woman wore a white plastic hair clip dangling crookedly, buried between her long honey-blond hair hunks. The hair draped her thin shoulders halfway down her back. Her poise was as if standing at attention, with her back turned to the bodega entrance. The woman seemed to be on this block for a purpose, a sentinel patiently waiting for her orders from elsewhere. As I tried to pass, she suddenly spun to face me. “You must come with me,” she said, breathless. “Today is your day.” “My day?” She stared at me with oval eyes, the cast of emeralds. Her skin was tan. My first guess was she was from the Middle East, but also vaguely French, Italian, and Rom. Perhaps a pied-noir; I read books on the Algerian War. First, a savage war of peace, then her family was exiled. You could see the planet in her face, the alluring geography of curving full lips, the range of her narrow nose sloping toward them, and the sunny seashore tones of her smooth skin. She dressed from another time. A gray Cashmere sweater buttoned over a bleached Peter Pan collared blouse, a shapeless black knee-length skirt, heavy nylon stockings, and black kitten heels with wide satin bows. “Yes,” she said, earnest yet courteous. “You must come with me.” I became anxious. “I am sorry, but I must get home.” The young woman became adamant, her voice rising. “No. You don’t understand. Today is your day.” She bit her lip. “Please.” “Then what day is today? She grasped my hand. Her fingers were cold. A whisper: “This is your day.” I then understood what she meant. Emeralds sparkled. Mike Lee is a writer and editor at a trade union in New York City. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Lunate, Ghost Parachute, The Quarantine Review, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available on Amazon and other online bookselling outlets.
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