I got up off the big couch and got dressed. Startled and emotional for the first time, he said, “We’re not finished.” “I am.” “But you’re making progress.” I said. “You’re not.”
I walked out of there and headed east from Columbus Avenue to Central Park. I had had it with these bullshit therapists. On my way I smoked another joint for good measure. I was soon flying and could barely stay in my heels. I crossed into the park.
My groin was nice and warm and my tight pencil skirt made me feel very sexy as it constricted my legs. My hair flowed in the wind. I was feeling the warmth and chill of a good high. The glaze in my eyes was perceptible. Men were eyeing me letting me know how good I looked or rather: how good to fuck.
I walked past the line of benches that snaked up to the band shell and noticed all the regulars sitting around doing nothing which they work very hard at doing. I spotted a boy who had fucked me in the bushes some time ago.
I took off my suit jacket and thumbed it over my shoulder to bide my time as I tried to be inconspicuous and casual. I wandered over sure that he’d remember me. My plan was to pass him and see if he recognized you know who and then take it from there.
He didn’t even notice me. Everyone else was staring at me but he was playing with a skate wheel that seemed to be stuck. I didn’t want to make another pass and be too obvious because he was with his homies so I went on.
I noticed a girl, at the end of the bench, reading one of those romance novels. I found the cover of the paperback very arousing: the swashbuckler and his distressed lover were soaring into the glittered heavens on a gallant white horse with a jeweled horn on its head. It sounds pathetically romantic or should I say silly, but if you look at it another way, well, it visually conveys the passion of being swept away, surrendering to the god within and without us, but then I was very stoned so forgive the allusions.
There was a guy taking notice of me. I didn’t know him, but I had a feeling he was a pimp. Something the way he looked, a confidence that sort of makes you nervous for being yourself. But then I was probably just reacting to his uninvited stare. He didn’t have skates on. Just running pants, some bling-bling, and a bright yellow Nike running jersey, the silky kind that feels good to touch.
He said, “I think your handbag strap is twisted.” It was. Somehow the joiner got twisted. I tried to get it around so the strap wouldn’t twist. “Lemme give you a hand.”
He walked away from his crowd of three and put his hand on the strap. I froze. “Yo, I wanna help. Take it easy.” I let it slip off my shoulder, held it for a second then thought better and continued on.
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 127, by Carrie
To be continued……
