When I met Simone Desuza she was talking wildly to a group of young professionals at a small table in the corner of a murky lounge. As they listened to Simone speak and watched her swagger no one could explain to themselves just why in the hell they adored her so much -- She was loud, brutally sarcastic, blushingly costumed, and worst of all so damn un-metropolitan -- and still they continued to pursue her. The group consisted of mostly men in promising white collars with loosened ties off a days work, and the several women in the group, though being of the surest pedigree would give side glances as their boyfriends participated eagerly with Simone.
The girls apparently were of some regal status some where out on the Island, and they could not help but to silently stammer when Simone refused to play ball. She ran the court, praising some remarks and tearing down others, and when she teased her men, the other girls hardly refrained from thanking her.
Right as I braved myself to enter the roiling caucus the first words shouted to me by Simone was
"Why you're a lil' one aint'cha?" This initiated some laughter among the group and was followed by a reposed 'welcome to the party' sigh. This is when I knew I would hate her, but she was fresh and it captured me.
"One cannot help but to feel small next to you, the name is Simone?" I asked, giving my hand to her which she took and held to study.
"You won't live long, hate to say it but it's all right there" she said pointing to my palm.
"The life line is severed right there." She pointed again.
"But," she went on; holding up a drink to toast herself "I'll give you something to live for in the mean time." Immediately I didn't really know what to say.
Smoke filled the room as the night passed and I found myself leaving with Simone when all the other boys were being dragged away.
On the sidewalk, in the street lamp glow of a city night we stood weighing our options. She spoke first and declared to know a cheap motel nearby and led me up the street, trying to light a cigarette as it bounced in her mouth, she prided "They know me here."
Next Morning
"I feel like shit."
Why, she asks.
I don't bother telling her about gnarly breath, stiff motel sheets or my general regret for the entire previous evening. What the neon thru a window created after midnight was now gone in wash of gold morning.
First she barked for a screw driver, and after seriously awaiting service at a twenty dollar stay motel she ordered me down to the corner store for a 7 dollar bottle of champagne. She guzzled it, after which she burped and cursed.
There was something about the war on T.V. and Simone waxed philosophical about it until the clerk alerted us for check out at 10 am.
On the street suddenly she was flighty, bags in hand, in a flurry of leopard print tights and a torn denim skirt Simone boasted
"You're going to walk me all the way to the subway!" Strutting down a cloudy street in Astoria.
The city heights loomed beyond her. Barren October trees plotted only enough to collect trash beside her were black and wet, snaking sullenly upward into the gray sky. The trees were dormant and of row, stapled into the sidewalk. All of it seemed to gather pity within Simone and and raised her hand, opting for a cab instead.
She stopped and turned to me, looking mostly at her purse and moaned something about meeting in Hackensack. I wasn't really listening, only watching when a taxi swerved in response to Simone's hail, as if it were a pheromone attraction.
Screeching to a halt the cabby heard a similar story about Hackensack.
The driver smiled and fumed a stubby cigar from his mouth
"Sure toots where ever you want to go."
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