Walking

It was a three-cigarette walk.

She passed some sailors dining outside of Pescatore.

Then there Andy was through the opened windows of the pub.

"Hiya, Anne!"

Then she turned the block with dexterity, dexterously poising a cigarette between her second and third finger. There was Roberto outside of Ashton's.

"Hola, Mommy! Hola, Anneceta!"

"Yeah, si, hola!"

The outside tables were filled with American suits who lost their words, their train of thought as she walked by. Gutless suits who lost their words and wished they could be strong enough to challenge her. Smoke in their faces and a knowing turn of her lips was enough to set them off for a week of confusion.

La-tee-da.