Date With a Jersey Chick

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Sometimes the best of friends are the ones you can share your dreams, or even a silly silence with, and you know there will be no judgements. Only love. lmr

 

We are dressed down, in all black,  with our matching berets cocked at a deadly tip, and our cool is heading towards the ridiculous. Is it me... or is our swagger becoming the stuff of legend in this city?  Hey, Ruby Mae, inside the intensity of this moment, I am quietly digging your sway, and how sometimes you'll move in this gracefully smooth, unutterable elegance... and I'll think: WOW! Just WOW!  It's times like these,  I become so impressed by the essence of you.  I almost forget you know me, know my name, share my secrets and you have sat shotgun beside my dreams.  Hell, you might even “LOVE” me a li'l bit... that way you Jersey chicks do… or so you’ve said on a bold or giddy occasion or two. Though, why is it always me... who says it first?



I am pondering on this, as night blows by like a hit of good cheeb... and we sit, lit in pink bistro light. A somewhat-scatting jazz chanteuse croons lively from the juke.  Being this jazz-loving dude that I be, I think it’s Rosie Clooney.  A young Miss Clooney, in jazz mode, sounds sweet and frothy, although Nina Simone would’ve wooed and taken us home in slow motion. So, we eat, talk, and we laugh some. We speak fluently of horny evenings and current sex machines and of poetry readings in  Brooklyn. We each secretly want to be Real Poets kissed by stars of adoration and acceptance. Yet we only admit this in deeper whispers when those voices of our inner wishes come gleaming from our eyes. Funny how we become two groggy victims inside the clutches of this Italian wine with the world "swhirling" and the traffic sighing around our ears, as the late Miss Rosemary Clooney serenades us.



"Happy Birthday, Ruby Mae!" I raise my glass and sing to you, in Stevie Wonder style, as a waiter brings a single red cupcake and you smile like the new day's sun.



Later on, 27th Street sits all over your shoulders like a navy shawl with moveable glitter in it.



You  suggest we visit a psychic. You want to pay some faux mystic to feed us good news and divine us some brighter future… But I nix this idea. Psychics, scare me. Besides, I say: 'I’m all the clairvoyance you need, baby! Let’s see:  You still dream to be kid-free, Jersey-free, soul-free to write and Be heard... and if not prominent... then at least a coolly popular cult figure.'


See? I know your dream. I even share its sheen with you.


No need for juju nor tarot reading mojo-slinging mystic women summoning up Voodoo, at 1:22AM. No need, when this Moment Alone Is Precious. We can just breathe in the sights, the sounds, this swoosh of traffic and these Cool York City noises.  No need for a stranger's voice, when this shrouded voice of Love and yet-to-be poetry speaks best for you and me.


Hey! Ruby Mae, have I told you lately how your smile paints me softly in royal blue plumes and downtown moonlight? Hey! Maybe it’s infectious, too. It makes us giggle like junior high fools and beautiful, if profoundly Special people do. You smile and it reminds me how I haven’t really smiled from deep inside my soul in a week (or has it been a decade?) or two. Well, at least since my last time hangin' out with you.

 


The night turns a cold 59 degree shoulder to us. I walk you, in Stagger-Lee mode, to your train, and we wait for its arrival. Time passes. We chuckle inside our silly silence. And then, the train comes in a slow gust of foul air.  I kiss you goodbye. You grab my ears... and you smile that smile you do.


"Thanks for making this one a memory, Lin."  You kiss my lips, and then my cheek.  And you hold your lips in that one magic spot for longer than a moment.

 I can feel you then:  Your intent.  your sincerity...  your sad-happiness is all there for me.


And then you board the Path. And I begin to walk away.  But I turn back to see you in the windows of the train. You are moving through the cars… just moving with this Grace,  with such quietly dignified and unutterable elegance that your swagger becomes legend inside my mind… and you make a whole new memory.    It is then, in times like this, that I almost forget, you know me, know my name. I forget we've shared each others secrets.

I forget, you know the weight of these dreams I’ve put on hold… Hell, you even “LOVE” me... a li'l... that way you Jersey chicks do... or, so I've been told…

Seems I'm always the first to say it, though.



Sometimes, inside my mind or in the back of my throat, I find myself humming it, in a happy-to-be-nappy tune of strangely transforming notes,  all the way home.



"Happy Natal Day, Ruby Mae. 
I love you. I adore you.  I love you, so.
I love you. I adore you…
I really do love you, yo."

 
 
 

copyright © 2016 by L.M. Ross



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