There was less than an inch of snow in NYC. I went out to clear my usual book nook but didn't have to, as the salt the staff used had melted it all but what was on the ledge before the garden, which I scraped off with the device I use to clean the car. Now if only the temperature would rise from its 20 degrees below normal insistence.
Here’s the last part of a short story, Mysteries, one of the few I haven’t had any luck placing. Vito has just left an off-off-off Broadway play in which a friend appeared. He didn't have any luck with an actress to whom he was attracted. The street is 8th Avenue. Although the date doesn’t really matter, I’d say it was summer 1995. I'd guess it's a ten-minute read:
An attractive, stout Hispanic woman whispered as he passed her on the sidewalk. He did not respond, although she was not dressed like a hooker. The specter of AIDS was everywhere but especially prevalent on this street. Besides, he wasn't interested in casual sex. He wasn't even sure he would accept a ménage a trois, his all-time fantasy, should two attractive women propose it. He wondered if he would ever again pass an attractive Hispanic woman without thinking of Yvette.
He entered a convenience store and asked a well-dressed man, whom he assumed was the manager, the location of the cold beverages. The man gazed at him perplexedly, apparently annoyed. Vito tensed, sensing the question had been interpreted as a come-on. Fortunately, a woman called out to him anxiously, guiding him. Opening the refrigerator door, he frowned, realizing he was substituting sweets for love. The candy bar and soft drink would no more appease him than a return to the guitar had for the loss of Yvette.
A cop? he thought, gazing from the counter toward the man in the suit, whose eyes sized up anyone who entered the store. Vito was impressed with his own detective work, then wondered if it was merely the writer in him conjuring a scenario.
At a nearby corner a woman was seated at the base of a streetlight, head bowed, as a fit of coughing wracked her. Recovered, she lifted her face, which was illumined by the glare. Beneath the ravages of whatever afflicted her, he guessed that she was perhaps as young as 30 and not in her 50's, as it appeared at first glance. Further along, an unkempt man was ranting incoherently. Vito lowered his gaze, wondering at the suffering in life, a travail that dwarfed his own. Why? he thought; might as well ask: "Why not?" He vaulted a barricade that guarded the half of the avenue that was under repair, and turned down a side street. He immediately regretted the choice, as a group of young blacks was gathered, radio blaring rap into the night. He went on, despite his fear, which he felt should have been alleviated by the sight of the two girls dancing on the sidewalk. Chances were they were all just enjoying the beauty of the night. To have turned back would have been cowardly and might have invited derision or worse. He walked directly down the middle of the street, allowing himself leeway should he have to act or run. He did his utmost to appear casual, sucking at his straw. One youth passed close behind him.
Try anything and the bottle goes upside yo' head, said Vito to himself, peering out of the corner of an eye, alarmed at the violence within him. He wondered if the youth had designs or had simply been playing "Intimidate whitey." It was a mystery he would take into the night. His eyes glazed. It was a shame to experience such fear on the streets of the gorgeous ethnic and cultural mosaic that was the city.
Waiting as his engine warmed, he wondered if he'd erred in not asking Sonya for her number. Maybe Paul hadn't encouraged him because he was upset at not having had her himself, despite the fact that he had someone like Andie to go home to.
No, he'd done right, he knew. She was no more a match for him than Yvette. It was loneliness that had him long for such women, that would have him overlook the obvious. Besides, if Sonya should want him, all she had to do was contact Paul for the number. Still, he knew the omission would plague him. Desire was no clearer than the mystery of life itself. And he longed for meaning.
Vic's 4th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/bszwlxh
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Horror Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp
Vic’s Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
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