Click. Click. Three inch heels tap rhythm onto cobblestones, polished by millions of footfalls. Clickety. Red patent for glitz, open-toed for comfort, but on uncertain surfaces, an ankle might turn.
Click. “Senora. Canastas. Muy bonitas.”
He stands close, but tonight he does not whine, as he holds out a dozen baskets, bright as birds. Tonight, here on the Alcala, there is song in his voice, and his eyes are lighted.
“As beautiful as the senora,” he croons.
I turn him down, as I have every night save one. Tonight, I am not looking to buy baskets.
It’s Saturday evening, and I’m on the prowl, and not for the man selling baskets. All dressed up with no place to go and no one to go there with. Black crocheted skirt skims my calf; black silk blouse clings provocatively, cleavage now covered (but could easily, surreptitiously, be uncovered) by a red woven shawl bought only an hour before on the Zocalo.
Oaxaca swarms in the streets tonight. School girls in blue and white, newly-conscious of their charms, walk arm in arm, giggling at the boys who circle them, laugh too loud and smoke too fast. Matrons charge along in threes and fours, swaying in tight skirts and tighter blouses, blazings colors across the night.
I’m all dressed up and restless. Very restless. Click. Click.
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