The words over at Three Word Wednesday are adamant, fabricate and peculiar. This is a re-working of an older piece.
She puts up a hurried, manicured hand up on the corner of Fifth and 55th, near the St. Regis.
I edge my Yellow Cab over. It’s 10 past midnight.
“Pier 84,” she says. “Near the Intrepid Air and Space Museum?”
“Little late for a museum tour.”
She looks out the window and waves a her hands, adamant that we leave.
I start the meter and give an eye to the fare.
She’s model beautiful, tall, willowy. Dark, wavy hair, skin like heavy-bond paper, bone. Simple black dress, something off-shoulder. I adjust the mirror and I can see skin, the elastic top of her thigh-high black hose. Blood-red nails match her lipstick. A simple diamond pendant rests in the little hollow of her neck. The diamond (a karat at least) is in a silver setting – platinum probably – and it matches her diamond stud earrings perfectly.
“Pretty rough place, at this hour.”
“Your tip depends on your speed in getting there,” she says, as she taps out a Morse-code text on her mobile, without looking up.
The pier is submerged in a greasy darkness. I through the cab into park with a lurch.
“Wait here, and for God’s sake, turn off your headlights,” she says as she exits in the harsh light of the dome light.
She doesn’t venture very far.
And hikes up her dress, squats and releases a stream of piss a drunken sailor would have been proud of.
Thing is, it’s the color of Mountain Dew. How do I know? It fucking glows. The entire, spreading puddle between her expensive heels.
There’s a goddamn sound, too, fucking peculiar. Then I get it – it’s like the Snap! Crackle! Pop! of a giant bowl of Rice fucking Krispies.
She stands and whistles in relief as she shimmies the dress over her hips, clicks back to the cab in heels on concrete and settles herself back into my cab.
I open my mouth and she puts a finger to her lips.
“Let’s just say it puts the other girls off,” she says. “It’s so much easier to fabricate a story, take a little ride with a lovely cabbie such as yourself. Take me back to the King Cole Lounge, if you please.”
And brings her angelic face to the partition.
“And, Jimmie, is it? Might you have a card? I suspect I’ll need one more break before dawn.”