To fight the oppressive heat of the afternoon, I donned a silk blue dress with a cinch waist for an alumni lunch at a private dining club nestled in a secluded nook of the city.
On the walk across town, a man approached me.
“I’ve been following you for a block.” He was entranced by my look, he said looking me up to my gold lame headband and down to my braided leather ballet-type sneaker. He wanted to know if I was “in fashion” or “music”. He asked me about the hot clubs, one I’ve read about more than I’ve heard and as a result consistently forget how to pronounce it.
“I’ve been to Tenjune,” I lie. “a while ago,” trying to remember if Tenjune is still considered hot.
He tells me of a party for Usher last week and asks for my card.
He sees my wedding ring and rescinds his invitations. “You’re husband will never let you go. I can’t believe you’re married.”
“With two kids,” I add and still hope to be invited to a party.
The next time that happens I’ll tell him to look me up, Milf Alert.
“You’ll find me if you really want to.”