O Body Swayed to Music
I
Cobblestones
Marlena had read once that only Italian women could negotiate cobblestones in stilettos. If the Fan District of Richmond didn’t actually have cobblestones, its aging, uneven brick — remnants of the old city, of another time, another era — still created a hazard for the unwary. A high wire walker in life, she never looked down as she kept a brisk pace weaving in and out of the early Friday afternoon crowd.
Her acute hearing allowed her to take a distinct satisfaction in the clip of her heels chipping away at the old brick. An assignation with an unknown man, her heart ought to skip beats, her skin should flush. Neither happened.
If she entered this meeting into her appointments calendar as business, what it would ultimately devolve into would be entirely up to her; a man didn’t traverse a long state like Virginia to go over a prospective balance sheet. When and if he wanted raw data, her subordinates could supply it. The tiny black bag dangling from her shoulder, and contrasting sharply with the starkness of her white blouse, held no room for business documents. Some women might say she dressed provocatively. More might wish they could pull it off. Long strides, long tan coat, short black skirt, short brown hair that shined, skin that glowed; men watched her, and she reveled in it.
