The woman wore white lace gloves and for a while she rode with me on a regular basis. I’d position my cab outside the hotel where she worked and tell her each time, “Thanks a lot for choosing me.” There was a whiff of madness about things when she appeared. It felt like fertility was about to happen! At first I’d leaned against the car hoping she’d take a second look, notice the he-man I thought I was. This was years ago. I remember it like a series of hallucinations, or like a title: “The Lady with the Lace Gloves.” For a while she was all that mattered. I also remember telling a bald man with a wet dog that I picked up at the beach around the same time that I had an unfettered message of hope to impart. I can’t believe I thought that back then.
This was well before marrying Thelma. “Enjoy your tomato,” she said tonight, handing me my supper, those fierce words meant to delight. 