Beautiful Stranger

I make a conscious effort to correct my posture and lift my feet, although I am weary to my bones and it is just so hard. But I know my mother sees me. I keep that knowledge to myself, because I also know that not everyone agrees with that line of thinking. Still, I know my mother sees me, so I do my best to walk with my head up and my back straight and to not drag my feet as I walk along. I also know my mother loved me, and I loved her, so every day I try to remember to be the person she thought I was.

This has been the longest day ever. I know everyone says that when they have had a long day, but it really feels like there is no way I left home only ten hours ago. It seems like it has been days. The day is hot and the suit that I picked out at a second-hand store last week, and so carefully washed and pressed while dawn still had yet to make an appearance, is now rumpled and uncomfortable. 

This morning I felt confident and pretty when I left the apartment. I showered and dried my shoulder-length dark hair, it falling almost effortlessly into the dark curls I had fought in vain for most of my teenage years. I stood completely naked in front of my bathroom mirror, examining my body with a critical eye. My brown eyes were rather boring and always seemed a little sad, my face was too round, my lips were too thin… but I was strong and fit. Not because I made fitness any kind of priority in my life or was able to afford a fancy gym membership, but because life had been hard and I had worked hard. For at least the last 8 of my 23 years, I had been my mother’s primary care-giver. I somehow managed to get myself to school (and maintain good grades) while cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, watching out for my brother (who was a year older but definitely not a year’s worth of smarter), and all while caring for my mother and watching the cancer turn her from a strong capable, loving woman into a bitter, shriveled husk. 

After I dried off, I applied a little mascara and some lip gloss, and put on my new underwear. I read somewhere years ago that when important women in business want a little confidence boost, they wear sexy underwear beneath their smart business suits, so I had gone to the discount department store down the street a few days ago and bought the fanciest bra and panties that twenty seven dollars and seventy-six cents could buy. But as much as I wished my breasts were bigger and my stomach firmer, I thought I looked good.

I had put on a sleeveless floral print blouse I had taken from my mother's closet, thinking that although I had never seen her wear it, it must have been the nicest thing she had ever owned, because I am sure it is real silk. It fits me a little loose, but it felt so cool and luxurious against my skin this morning. (Now it is stuck to me with the heat of the day). After I put on the lavender suit from the second hand store, I grabbed some small gold-tone hoop earrings from my mother’s jewellry box and put them on. I stepped into a pair of beige dress shoes I thought were a little drab, and they had no heel, but they’re the nicest dress shoes I own, and my mother had picked them out for me, calling them practical and a good value. Then once again, I stepped up to the mirror for self-appraisal.

I smiled at myself, I just felt pretty. I thought I looked smart and professional and well, pretty. Not head-turning gorgeous or even really all that memorable, but pretty nonetheless. I know if she were here, my mother would say "Looks won't get you far girl, you need to work hard and use your brains to get anywhere in this world," but even though I have been sheltered, I am worldly enough to realize that it also doesn't hurt to look nice.

It was an important day, and I wanted to look and feel confident. Today was the day I met with the lawyer to discuss my mother’s estate. He had called last week and let me know that THERE WAS MONEY. I didn't know how much yet, but apparently my father had had a life insurance policy and my mother secretly socked most of it away for my brother and I. The small amount my mother and I had in a joint bank account for living expenses was almost gone, and my job working nights at the pizza place down the street was not going to be enough for long term. 

So I had taken two buses and a train to get to the law office. It wasn’t the pretentious, wood-paneled, bookshelved, leather furniture-covered place I had been expecting. It was a plain, modest office in a small building shared with a dentist, a massage therapist and a small convenience store. There was a reception area and one office for the lawyer. The lawyer had been a small, older gentleman with white hair and kind blue eyes. 

I had gone alone, as no one knew where my brother was, I hadn’t seen him in nearly three years. Pretty much from the moment my mother became bed-ridden and we moved her hospital bed into the living room. So his portion of the estate - about 20 thousand dollars and my mother’s ‘92 Buick Park Avenue - was to be held until the lawyer could reach him. The car would go into storage and the storage fees would be paid out of the funds. I imagine once he heard about that, he would come out of whatever hole he was hiding in long enough to snatch up the car and the money before the money ran out.

My portion of the estate was altogether different. My mother had left me our small two bedroom house and everything else. All of her belongings and nearly 72 thousand dollars.

I don’t really remember much of the conversation after that. We had lived so meagerly, I felt like I had been completely in the dark. All of a sudden the whole world had changed.

I left the law office and just wandered. For hours. The passing of time ceased to exist but at some point I realized the day had turned hot and humid, it was nearly dinner time and I was starving, and I was in a completely different part of town. I ducked into a small cafe and ordered tea and toast and tried to get my bearings. Then, when I realized I could splurge a little, I called the waitress back and asked for a club sandwich instead. By the time I was done eating, I had figured out where I was and I had the beginnings of a small plan in mind. True, we weren’t talking about a fortune by most standards, but I was going to be fine. I thought I would even maybe take some administrative assistant classes and get a better job. I was going to be fine.

So now I walk to the boss stop, aware that I am rumpled and sweaty and exhausted, but I walk upright and proud, as my mother would have expected. Am I walking differently now that I HAVE MONEY? Does my tiny smile give it away? I don’t know and I don’t care, because I am going to be fine.

I get onto the number 5 bus and I can feel eyes on me so I scan the few other occupants as I walk by. There is a man sitting behind the bus driver, facing into the aisle and he is staring at me. A beautiful man. I look away and take a few more steps and then glance back. He is still looking. I quickly take a seat and look over again. I don’t know how else to describe him other than beautiful, he is so exquisite he nearly takes my breath away. He is dark-skinned and broad-shouldered and very tall. He is clean-shaven, with a strong, masculine jawline, a disturbingly sensual mouth and the thickest lashes I have ever seen over eyes the colour of mountain jade. Ohmygodhiseyes. I am lost. I have forgotten my exhaustion. My heart races and my breath is shallow.

I realize I am staring back at him and quickly look away. When I can’t resist any longer I glance back to see that he is still openly and unashamedly looking right at me. I tingle all over, and look out the window. I can still feel his eyes on me. For the rest of the way home, every time I am tempted enough to try to sneak a glance, I see that he is still staring at me. 

Finally I can stand it no longer and I raise my eyebrows in question. He barely mouths the words, but I hear them plain as day inside my head, in a deep, rich voice. “You are beautiful”. 

I hold his gaze as I reach up to ring the bell for my stop. When the bus comes to a stop and I stand up, he also stands up. When I leave the bus and start to walk down the street, he is beside me, close enough to touch. 

My mother’s voice is screaming inside my head, “What in heaven’s name are you doing? This is a stranger! A STRANGER! Run! Call 911! Scream! What are you DOING??”. I glance at him and my mother’s voice immediately falls silent.

As I put the key in my door, I feel his fingers graze my arm and it is like an electric shock lingering where he has touched me. I am aware that I am holding my breath. He is closer now and I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. I open the door, walk into my house and turn to face him. He walks in, still holding my gaze and kicks the door closed with his foot.

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The sun comes in through the gauzy drapes and I reach across my bed to touch the first man I have ever touched in a non-familial way. He is not there.

I open my mouth to call him, but realize I don’t know his name. The evening is now just a dreamy, euphoric blur. I wonder for a moment if it was even real. I get up and throw on a robe and head to the kitchen, sure I will find him sitting there with a cup of coffee or tea. I do not. I put the kettle on and wander around the house. He is not here. Aside from my sheets looking a little more tumbled than usual, there is no sign at all that there was ever anyone here other than me. I am not sure how I feel about that. I am not happy he is not here, I would have liked to see him again, but I am surprised to find that I am not really sad either. We shared a magnificent moment that I will never regret, but I neither need nor want anything more right now. I have a plan to start working on, after all.

I am going to be fine.