It was Monday night. Debbie perched on the fire escape stairs outside the window as Lola lay sprawled on the floor, reading about diets. To their relief, Lori had not come home last night but would be arriving shortly.
"Play it cool," Lola warned. Stroling through the fields of Central Park, they had purged themselves of their newly shared hatred, as if ringing out a sopping wet sponge, seething with poison. Once during the improvised excercise class that Lola and Lori had shared, they had cried out in capricious frenzy: "Punch her! Punch her! Punch her!" Arms circling overhead, up, around, forward and down.
The door lock clicked. The sound of a key turning in its triple lock filled the studio apartment.
The door opened.
Lori's naturally tan face was white. She did not look at Lola or Debbie, but at the floor. Debbie suppressed a giggle.
"I missed you guys," Lori attempted.
Debbie turned to the counter and said nothing.
"How was your weekend?"
Debbie did not answer Lori's question.
"Oh, it was good. We found her an apartment and we went to Central Park," Lola supplied the answer.
"Really? Oh."
There was a long pause before anyone said anything..
"Oh, don't you look cute!" Debbie spoke. She referred to the red patent leather pumps, white stretch pants, red and white striped sweater, white button earrings, all perfectly coordinated.
"Did you go out this weekend?"
"Yep. Had a good time," was Debbie's terse yet jovial reply.
Denise Hickey
Summer of '87
The East Village
