Near the Crossroads

Near the Crossroads

FROM NEAR THE CROSSROADS she watched. Her eyes were full of apprehension. She gave herself a once-over, she was OK. She wore a dark tight skirt, the hem below the knees, a white long-sleeved blouse, black court shoes. Dark clouds had gathered above not silver lined. The lights changed. A jade 1956 DeSoto engaged, passed at forty kilometres an hour, headlights on at half past three in the afternoon. Thunder had not started to crash yet. She stared at the ring on her third finger, left hand, not her wedding ring, she wasn't married yet, a present from her father. A one carat emerald silver ring. Without taking it off she got hold of it between her right thumb and index finger, twisted it clockwise counterclockwise repeatedly for a few seconds, checked the grip. That didn't help. That didn't put an end to her sorrow. Were she any older, perhaps she would have learned the situation she was in, that what caused the hurt that she felt, didn't matter at all, in the end. That there was a big picture she ought to look at. That you do not ordinarily die from an aching heart. That you can put things in perspective. That her boyfriend wasn't the only man in the world. That she counted, too. That she was the other half. She could make someone cry too. She searched for something in her handbag, got it, but lost hold of it and it fell in the gutter. She crouched down, picked it up. Lucky the rain hadn't started yet. It was a spent streetcar ticket she kept as a souvenir. She took her compact out of her handbag, checked her face in the mirror. She applied some more lipstick on her lips. French Rose, Germaine Monteil lipstick. She made the universal movement with the lips all women perform, after they put on lipstick. Something she had inherited, something original sin like. When the rain fell she would take shelter under the awning of the clothes shop nearby, or maybe she might go inside the shop, she reckoned. She stared in front of her a while. Her gaze was level. She was serious.