In a small cafe tucked in a semi-basement away from the melee of Midtown at rush hour, where the air carried the scent of Turkish coffee and sweet-potato French fries, five women sat in a corner booth under a giant poster of Lucille Ball, sipping espressos and exchanging their most recent traumas.
“I stood in front of her cheese shop in Park Slope for an hour last night,” Allison moaned as she stirred her cappuccino, the foam dissolving into a murky pool of cream. The cheese shop belonged to the Havarti Hussy, the woman Allison’s husband left her for. Roxie and Graciela exchanged glances. Noлlle dipped a French fry into a cup of mayonnaise.
Finally, Kyoko said, “Again?” Allison nodded; eyes lowered and bottom lip pouting.
“Why would you stand out in the cold in front of a cheese shop when you could have been in Jackson Hieghts with me, workin’ it in the club?,” Graciela asked.
“Jackson Heights is so far away ,” Allison drawled.
“What, you can go to Brooklyn to stalk your ex’s cheese slut, but you can’t come to Queens to hang out with Graciela and me?” Roxie asked.
“Yeah, when was the last time you came to hear me sing?” Graciela asked. Graciela worked as a singer in a salsa club to earn money to pay her nursing school tuition.
“I know, I’m sorry…” Allison mumbled, her southern accent bleeding heavily though.
“Don’t make her feel worse,” Kyoko scolded.
“I’m not trying to make her feel worse,” Graciela countered, “tu tienes que disfrutar tu vida, you have to enjoy life! So what if that cabrуn walked out on you?
That doesn’t mean you have to roll over and die. Just come have a drink, get on the dance floor, and shake your groove thang! Get yourself some dancing shoes, a sexy red dress and an Ipex bra and you’ll be ready to go. ”
“I’m not ready to meet anyone,” Allison replied. In a small cafй tucked in a semi-basement away from the melee of Midtown at rush hour, where the air carried the scent of Turkish coffee and sweet-potato French fries, five women sat in a corner booth under a giant poster of Lucille Ball, sipping espressos and exchanging their most recent traumas.
“I’m not ready to meet anyone,” Allison replied.
“You won’t meet anyone,” Roxie grumbled.
“Don’t start girl,” Graciela retorted, “you never even give any of those boys a chance.”
“Because boys are children and men are stupid little boys. Who needs them? Not me.”
“Me either,” Kyoko said, stifling a smile.
“You’re gay!” Noлlle laughed. “That’s not the same as being a cynic like Roxie.”
“I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist. What’s the point of having a boyfriend or getting married when you know one day he will come home smelling like Gouda with lipstick on his collar?”
“He didn’t come home smelling like Gouda,” Allison grumbled, “I found her bra under the bed.”