Who is that pretty girl in the pink floral dress, lace anklets, and mary jane shoes?
Such pretty pink ribbons in her long, blonde hair.
Who gave you the lolly, pretty girl?
I lower my lollipop and stick my tongue out at the mirror.
“My hair’s not blonde. My hair’s black. Tried to bleach it blonde once, but it turned orange instead,” I say to my reflection, giggling.
But that doesn’t matter anymore. Tonight will be the night. She’ll look at me this time. She’ll walk through the front door and down the sidewalk. I’ll be brave- a big girl- and lower my sunglasses. We’ll lock eyes . . and she’ll recognize me.
She looked into my eyes once before . . on the day I did a very bad thing. I don’t blame her for kneeing me in the balls. I deserved it- showing up unannounced like that. I don’t even blame the two big burly men for tackling me to the floor. Everybody was confused- me especially. I was so desperate and so scared. But screaming “I love you” and running around an office building naked is not how a civilized person acts.
I understand that now.
I just don’t understand why the police expected the blanket to stay on me as I stepped out of the back of the squad car with my hands cuffed behind my back. So I spent a week in jail instead of a day.
No hard feelings. I’ve moved on.
And the next week I found a room for rent across the street, above the Chinese restaurant. My disability check covered the rent and my food and my cell phone bill. No kitchen- but that’s just as well. The roaches were relentless.
I say “were” now, because I turned in my key this morning. It’s Do or Die for Chrissy Day. I can’t wait any longer. All I need is one more look from my princess Misty with the long blonde hair. So pretty and so perfect. She’ll gaze into my eyes and I’ll draw the strength I need. And I’ll finally call the number and finally move on with my life. I know that’s what my princess wants. And now I want it too.
Five o’ clock. It’s almost time. She leaves at five after five every Monday through Friday. A quick trot across the street and I’m in front of her office building.
Please, oh please, oh please, let her recognize me.
One more minute. I check my wig and makeup in my compact mirror one last time.
Misty is gonna be so proud.
The door opens. It’s her. She’s walking toward me. I square off in the middle of the sidewalk. I reach for my sunglasses.
Goddess Misty I love you. Forever.
A few more steps. I lower my sunglasses. She slows . . and pauses.
Going to faint, going to faint . . yes . . no.
“You’re blocking the sidewalk.”
“Well could you move, please? The grass is muddy from the sprinklers.”
I step aside. She walks past. I smell her perfume. Hear the click of her high heels. See the sparkle of her hair.
She looked me in the eyes. Did she recognize me? Maybe? Yes, I think she did. A hint of recognition. And when I spoke, I know she recognized my voice. Her mouth opened. Her perfect pink lipsticked lips parted and formed a perfect oval of surprise- and pleasure. I did good- very good. Her residue still floats around me. Drink it in. Breathe it. Absorb her magic.
And she’s gone.
“Thank you, Misty.”
I have the strength to call the number now. I reach in my purse and grab my cell phone and the magazine page. I read the ad again-
Sissy boys wanted. Permanent position. Call 747-797-9646. Singles only.
Time for the last phone call before I start my new life of servitude. I dial. It rings. I bite my lip.
“I am a sissy boy, at your service.”
“You know the Radisson on 86th?”
“Be there in an hour. Meet me at the ice machine on the fifth floor. Be dressed like a girl and be alone. Understand, sissy?”
He hangs up.
He sounded kinda mad. I hope I didn’t make him mad.
I sit on a bench, dig my flip-flops out of my purse, and take off my high heels and stockings. It’s gonna be a long walk, but I’ll make it in time. I hope. I don’t wanna make him mad. Maybe he’ll like my lollipop.
As with all my flash fiction, I welcome any and all constructive criticism and comments.