Baby Blue

“Where were you last night?” The question hung between us like the persistent ringing of an unanswered phone. I remember she was leaning against the doorframe and I by my bed when the accusation rang out, surprising us both. She didn’t look away, but I couldn’t meet her gaze, unwilling – no – unable to. That was it, I think; she always assumed I had a choice. Ring ring.

I can learn everything I need to about a person just by looking at their shoes. She was wearing baby blue flip flops the first time we met, the thong kind that exposed her freshly painted toenails, also baby blue, and suggested even more. Young, innocent, and a trusting naiveté that was practically begging to be devoured. Dressed in a tart red summer gown she reminded me of a sweet, new cherry, ripe for the taking.

Ring ring. Today she was wearing a pair of scuffed and soiled work boots. She volunteered…somewhere. I could never keep it straight. I seriously doubted whether there was any baby blue left beneath that ruined exterior. RING Ring. I stood up from my bed, not out of guilt, my imprint was the only one that could be seen, and moved to the open window. She was still watching me. The room, the question, her, all pregnant. The air from the window was cool and fresh on my face, sweet and caressing, ripe with opportunity, but – RING RING.

On the sidewalk below a baby was crying. Peering out through the open window I knew its father was wailing as well, though his tears were admirably hidden. I shut the window, its glassy image reflecting strangely into the room. I walked back to my bed and laid down on top of my sheets, thinking about the new girl at the Kwik RING RING Stop, the cherry red of her nails, RING RING the baby blue of her eyes.