The Running Joke
(continued)
Dr. DaVinci walked with purpose down the block. Dressed in earth-colors, like a chunk of fertile soil with large, tapered limbs. An oiled leather briefcase the tan of weathered pennies slung over her soft shoulder, grasped definitively to her hip with one hand. Donna pronounced her, "good mornings" as if they were reprimands. Eyebrows low and twisted, she nodded severely to a passerby, as if giving him her express permission to pass her grand, womanly body in motion.
Joy noted her lover's deliberate, purposeful movement down the block- the chin level; the silky-brown hair spun into a tight bun gleaming with flashes of warm sunlight; the flex of her powerful calves beneath the long, wispy emerald-green skirt; the solid beat of her heels on the pavement; the steadfast nods of "hello" she gave to those who passed, an almost hostile nod, no-nonsense, as if to say, I'm not gonna take "no" for an answer from anyone today.
Joy indulged in a grin, despite her melancholy. Folded her arms across the steering wheel. Rested her chin there and gazed. The breeze blew a wisp of hair loose from Donna's neat bun. It tripped across her thick lips. Ducking her chin and lengthening her stride, DaVinci pulled it away with two long fingers. Joy inhaled a "hiss" through her teeth, allowed a twinge of arousal to dislocate the unpleasantness of her hang over -- if briefly -- as DaVinci tossed-up her head, repositioned the briefcase over her shoulder, carried on down the block with certitude. Joy couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe the two of them had been together for a full month and three days. The hours were passing in a dreamy unreality, a series of rough emotions, one after the next, like the choppy waters under her dad's fishing rig. But some things were too good to be taken for granted.
"You're a fool." Joy said it aloud. "You're a damn fool." She almost wished Donna DaVinci wasn't a part of her reality anymore. A sudden, hot spike of angry adrenaline pulsed in her veins. Joy was thinking about Patty Malone's sneaky machinations. That pain in the ass, Patty Malone, who put Joy up to this silly business in the first place.
"Go right up and introduce yourself to her, Joy," Patty instigated in that whiny, highfalutin voice of hers. "Donna does her reading there almost every evening, baby. And she'd be perfect for you, believe me, you two would be perfect for each other."
Patty could make you believe it, if anyone could. The way her eyes lit up with the idea as she rifled through her enormous walk-in closet, looking for something classy for Joy to borrow. Patty was a class act, or at least she liked to imagine so. Joy didn't know why Patty continued to remain her friend as long as she had. She certainly teased Joy often enough about her "plebeian, low-brow" ways. Patty had an obsession with clothes shopping and uncompromising good taste; two small variables that added up to huge credit card debt. Only the best would do for Patty Malone. But still. Her patient lover and wife of seven years never saw Patty in the same ensemble twice, and she never failed to humor Patty, gasping in awe at each respective outfit, saying, "Fabulous, Patty darling. You've outdone yourself again." And anyway, who was Joy to judge Patty's bad habit? Joy's own was maybe less expensive in the short run, but just as costly in the long run. Watching Patty shake the lint off of a pinstriped gray suit made Joy want to shake up a dry martini. Who was she to judge?
"She's a smartie, Joy." Patty removed the blazer from the padded hanger, wiggling her eyeliner-delineated eyebrows. "Thirty-seven years old, Joy," she whined. "Ph.D., Joy," she whined. "A Psychologist, Joy."
"Oh, wonderful. I can get laid and cure my neuroses, free a' charge." Joy was buttoning a white blouse, which felt cool and slippery against her midriff. She had been bombarded with fragments of suits and blouses for the past 20 minutes, and the changing was starting to get overwhelming. "Hey, hey, now hold up a minute, Patty! Why's it so important to yuh that I get a girlfriend all of a sudden, huh?"
Patty looked her friend up and down; chin in hand. "Silk is milky on you, baby, perfect. We're definitely going with the silk top. Silk is a sensual, "touch me, touch me" fabric. Especially if you can bring yourself to relinquish the bra." She moved her head side to side, examining Joy. "Good, good. Now the blazer."
"I mean, am I that pathetic, huh?" Joy glanced in one of Patty's many body-length mirrors and turned sideways, laying a hand across her middle. She looked exactly like a short, frumpy 44-year-old waitress. Joy stuck her tongue out at the reflection with a scowl. "Is this your way of trying to sober me up, Patty? Get me clean again, heh? Because, uh-uh, thanks but no thanks, pal. Don't do me any favors, kay."
Patty whined out an exasperated Ugh! and then a rankled Shush! Joggled the blazer snug around Joy's low shoulders, her shiny-perfect French braid swishing. Untucked the silk collar and smoothed it along the pinstriped lapels, unbuttoned the blouse a couple notches, stepped back.
"Shame on you in an Armani suit!" Patty chided, with a deep-red lipsticked smile. "I care about you, baby, you know that, I've put up with you all these years after all. You deserve a good woman like Dr. DaVinci." Patty scurried back to her closet and returned with a slim gray tie. "Believe it or not, Joy," she went on, wrapping the tie daintily around Joy's neck. "You deserve good love, lady. Now! This tie stays loose and casual, knotted down here -- that's trés chic nowadays, baby."
I deserve it, huh? Joy returned her gaze to that body-length mirror and, for a brief moment, gave that short and sassy dark-haired lady in the pinstriped suit the benefit of the doubt.
