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The crumpled dollar bill felt almost velvety in her pocket. It was a lifeline, likely the only way she would eat that day or that week.

She stopped counting the days that way. It was easier to just let them happen. Every night that she watched the sun set from the pier was another night no one found her cold and stiff in the street.

She shivered as another icy draft slithered beneath her collar. Among the meager belongings that had disappeared from her worn backpack, her scarf was the most dear. The pack seemed to grow lighter every other week.

She dispatched the second cupcake from a pack of Hostess that morning; a woman in a long, expensive-looking trench coat pressed it into her hands on her way out of a nearby AM/PM where she bought her piping hot coffee. The woman’s eyes were soft, uncharacteristic of a New York native, home of fast-walking women who wore their purses beneath their coats. Ororo’s mother, N’Dare, always called that the mark of a woman who lived in the city. Before she could mumble more than a thank-you, the woman was off. Her sturdy boots clop-clopped down the pavement and down a subway shaft.

She heard the low moan of foghorns in the mist. The scent was clean off the harbor, a welcome change. Ororo hated the murky stench of low tide as much as the odors from the subway.

Her hair began to creep out from her shabby ponytail in coarse tendrils. They whipped against her face and stuck to the corners of her mouth. She knew she looked like hell.

*


Remy was burned out.

Uninspired. That was the word that was on the tip of his tongue, but he wouldn’t admit it.

How else could he explain this slump?

He fled the warm interior of his loft; it began to feel sterile and oppressive. Faces stared out at him from nearly two dozen frames. He still felt lonely.

He didn’t feel like a drink. Not today. Remy fingered his keys in his pocket, fiddling with his six-month, one-year and five-year tags.

He took a walk in the mist and wind. The breeze was cold but not strong enough to clear the fog away.

The buildings resembled trees, half-obscured and gray, tall and unswaying. Some were businesses, some were residences, but none of them looked like home. Remy missed southern hospitality and the bayou. But Remy tucked that part of himself on the shelf.

He’d grown as a photographer. He no longer created and shaped what he saw in his lens. His photos shaped him. Five fashion magazines confirmed this. Every downtown bus drove by with his work plastered on the side.

What Remy craved wasn’t what he had. Ansel Adams had his waterfalls. Remy wanted his muse.

He wanted to create a star.

Remy people-watched by the pier. A hot dog warmed his hands. He ate it in decadent, large bites, savoring the tang of brown mustard and dill relish.

Belladonna wouldn’t have kissed him with hot dog breath. She never touched them. She hardly touched anything.

She hardly touched Remy. Three years found them suffering boredom and bed death. They were both jaded, damaged goods. No one else could put up with them; that was their mutual rationale. Neither Remy nor Bella had balls enough to disprove it.

He chucked the hot dog’s paper cradle in the green trash barrel and shrugged more deeply into his peacoat. More of the harbor’s denizens milled around in search of coffee and the morning paper.

In a world where order was defined by disorder and people didn’t walk, so much as bustle or rush, Remy’s artist’s eye found the element that didn’t fit.

She sat still. Stock still, watching the world go by, passing her by. People-watching, like him.

Her hair frequently escaped her ponytail. She scraped it from her face with long, wasted fingers.

Remy’s hands fumbled in his bag of their own volition. He scrambled to his feet before he knew what he was doing.

In seconds he prowled the pier. Very few people heeded him or his expensive Nikon as he stalked and crouched.

Ororo sighed at a flock of filthy pigeons and toyed with her watch. The strap’s fake leather was cracked, scratching her wrist.

Click.

She yawned with a languorous stretch.

Click.

A hangnail that bothered her all morning smarted. She bit it. It still felt raw.

She peered around. Remy froze, then pretended to look lost. She imagined that someone was watching her, most likely.

Her hair. It was driving her nuts.

Her hair elastic was a lost cause. She was tired of it, anyway.

Ororo released her hair in a flowing banner of white. The wind claimed it, whipping it off her face, then back down. Slowly, over and over, it fluttered and lifted.

Her expression was rapturous.

Remy captured it, frame after frame. His mouth was dry. Despite the colds his hands grew clammy.

She was fragile, and so vulnerable. He guessed she was younger than him. Her blue eyes still held something ancient.

Blue. He bargained that even in black and white, that pure, clear shade would pronounce itself.

She stood, breaking the spell.

Just for a moment.

She was tall, willowy, easily standing about six feet. Her clothing was shabby and thin; she dressed in random layers. Her jacket was a flimsy windbreaker, topping a hooded sweatshirt faded so far from black it was gray. Equally gray leggings peeked out from the threadbare knees of her jeans.

Doc Martens. Old school. They were a practical choice but destroyed the “waify” quality she wore like a cloak.

She shook off the stiffness from sitting so long in the cold. She peered around, looking resigned.

Remy realized she didn’t just have “nowhere to be.” She had nowhere to go.

He capped the lens of his camera and tucked it away, now precious cargo.

But he followed her, having time on his hands. That was a rare privilege. His day planner was devoid of meetings, shoots, facials or lunch appointments.

Her walk was graceful, despite the horrible shoes. Her hair continued to wave and flutter in the breeze. She was too thin, not emaciated, but she would benefit from a few hot meals. Cassandra, Remy’s least favorite agent, would scoff at the concept of a woman being “too thin.” She’d say the beauty drifting through the crowd before him was a “work in progress.”

Remy waded among the people buffeting him from all sides, attempting to keep up with her. He followed that unique white hair, waiting for any opportunity to get another shot.

He cursed. She was gone. How the heck did that happen?

He stood in place a moment, agape. Slowly he turned in a circle, watching for her.

No joy.

His stomach sank in disappointment. In hindsight, as he headed toward the street to hail a cab, he realized it was just as well. Yeah, like he really believed that. What would he have even said to her. Hey, beautiful, wanna hold still while I take some pictures of you, even though I’m a complete stranger?

He could have fed her, maybe plied her with a cup of hot coffee or given her his gloves. Something. Anything, for a chance to get more shots.

The street was just as crowded as the pier. The sky was darkening from charcoal gray to black. Remy stamped his feet to warm them up a bit while he flagged down a taxi about five cars back.

He suddenly felt a shift in the people around him. Felt, heard footsteps hurrying away from him.

“What the…merde!” His bag’s strap was jostled lightly on his shoulder, as though someone had pulled on it.

His white-haired Mona Lisa was beating feet with his camera!





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