I locked the back door
then opened a window,
the air thick with
dry cleaning solvent
and steam.
Rod had just left,
the pebbles spitting
beneath his tires
as he spun away
in his corvette.
I switched the radio
to Top 40,
then took my seat
at the counter,
staring out the window,
waiting for customers
to come in and retrieve
their freshly cleaned clothes.
A black Cadillac was parked
on the edge of the lot,
straddling two spaces.
A woman was inside
putting on lipstick
before swinging her long legs
out of the car.
The front door swished
across the carpet runner.
Mrs. Carras sashayed in.
She unfurled the silk scarf
that framed her face,
revealing the dark shine
of her bouffant and bangs.
“Hello,” she said,
“How are you and Rod today?”
She removed her sunglasses
and took a few light steps,
lifting on tip-toe
to gaze over my shoulder.
A jeweled byzantine cross
dangled in the V
of her low-cut blouse.
“Rod just left,” I said.
“He said he’d have your things
on Monday.”
Mrs. Carras set
a red leather tote
on the counter.
“So the boss left you
alone today?
He doesn’t do that
with most new girls.”
A thin smile
etched her face.
“Here then,” she said.
“Let’s enjoy this.”
Mrs. Carras pulled
gold-rimmed plates,
embroidered napkins,
and a baking tin
from the tote.
“Baklava,” she said.
“Have you had it?”
I told her no.
“You’re in for a treat then.”
Using a silver pie server,
she centered diamond-cut pastries
on the plates.
“Well, go ahead,” she said.
“Eat.”
I picked up the baklava,
a sugary syrup
coating my fingertips.
The dough flaked
as we both took bites,
a few crinkles
falling like leaves.
“Better than
you-know-what, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Carras winked.
Closing her eyes,
her tongue circled
her slightly parted lips.
“It is,” I said.
“I mean, the baklava.
It’s good.”
I wiped my fingers.
She laid
her smooth olive hand
over mine.
“I’ll come by again,” she said.
“No girl should be alone so much.”
Mrs. Carras gathered
the plates and napkins.
“I’ll leave the baklava,” she said.
“You can share it with Rod.
Or not.”
Mrs. Carras pulled her scarf
back over her hair,
draping the ends
beneath her chin.
She slipped on a pair
of white driving gloves,
lightly pressing the space
between each finger.
“You really are
a sweet thing,” she said.
“Watch out for yourself.”
A breeze rippled
through her scarf
as she opened the door,
gazing up at the trees.
Raising one leg behind her,
she pulled off an espadrille,
hooking it on her finger,
doing the same
with the other foot.
Walking barefoot,
she waved and slid
behind the wheel of her car,
watery shadows of leaves
gliding over the windshield
as she backed into the street.
