Feminine Protection
Louisa Howerow
art by Sandy DeLuca
Today, I walked down to the Mission. Left my mark on the corner. Better nobody messes with my space, if they know what's good for them. I waited till it was light, before I moved, fixed my hat. I like to look good, makes my day.
Mission. Best place to get a coffee. Doughnuts are pretty decent, too. So, here I am at my table near the window. I like that table. Scratched my name under the top. I can feel the letters, know it's mine.
Brother Thomas comes with the Mission. Once he told me Jesus loves me.
"How the fuck do you know?" I said. I got my manners when I talk to the Brother. But, I told him flat out, "Dude couldn't even save himself. Hanging up on the cross. Nobody going to save me, but me." Brother smiled, but I been noticing he don't talk as much.
Place is filling up. I smell Angel before I see her. She's doused herself with shit perfume again. Jake's hand is stuck to her butt. I don't want him following me like that. He can't save me, just wants to get under my Marilyn Monroe skirt. I seen him looking at me, when I twirl on the grate. My skirt goes round like in the movie and it's New York, and hot, instead of winter in Youngstown.
Angel snaps her fingers, comes closer. "You're somebody I know." She snaps her fingers behind my head. "Are you related to someone?"
"They're all dead." I don't have much to say to Angel; she can't save me from nothing. Her long coat and dress are the wrong shade; green makes her skin look sick.
"My mother said, 'Angel, you better not drink.' Know what I said?"
No one wants to know, not even me. I shake my head.
Angel answers softly, "But, Mom, it's just one drink."
People shouldn't be allowed to talk to you about their dead mothers. Or wear shit perfume. There should be a law. She snaps her way past my table, down the aisle.
"Can you believe the people in this town?" Jake's still here. He must have forgotten to keep his hand glued to Angel's butt. He pulls up a chair. "You don't have twelve dollars to fix your zipper and they call you a pervert."
I glare straight ahead, wrap my hands tighter around my mug.
Jake gives my shoulder a nudge.
"Lay off --"
He ignores my outstretched arm, puts his mouth close to my tit and whispers, "Know what . . . know what . . ."
I grab his ear and threaten to tear it off. Everyone is watching me. I sit up straight again. Posture is everything.
"We're too good for hell, and too awful for heaven," says Jake. "That's why I'm here. That's why we're all here."
"Says you."
Jake grins; a yellow-brown thread of spittle hangs down from a top tooth. "Hell, heaven and purgatory." He places three fingers in the black hole where his zipper should have been, gives a tug, and winks at me.
He'll get his. Good. Won't know when or where. Mark of Zorro right in the heart.
Angel's shit perfume drifts over my head. I squeeze my legs together under my Marilyn Monroe skirt, feel the razor blades taped inside my thigh. Feminine protection.
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