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The Old Maid Patting a stray silver curl into place, I step back and look in the mirror. My hair is elegantly arranged, permed with a faint silver/blue tinge added. My face is creamed, powered, blushed. An ample application of erase obscures the lines under my eyes and above my mouth. Licking my lips slightly, I touch up their cherry red shielding and carefully blend in the pale blue eye shadow under my brows. I put on the practical silver framed glasses my ophthalmologist prescribed, wondering for the hundredth time, it I could get away with tinted contact lens. I remember the glowing blue/violet eyes of my youth, their naturally thick, long dark lashes. “Like pools of light”, my first boyfriend said,claiming he could swim all night in them.
"Those were the days, girl!” I mutter, hitching my control top pantie hose up. ”You never imagined those nights would end, or all your young men would stop calling.”
Slipping my slightly swollen feet into the practical, yet fashionable light gray pumps and shrugging into a turquoise hip length sweater, I check the mirror and carefully lock the front door. “There was a time,” I think,”When you didn’t have to lock up, a time when you knew everyone on the block.” I smile ruefully, shake my head disapprovingly and descending down the steps begin my morning walk.
The neighborhood is changing: old stately houses are transformed into elegant condos, up and down duplexes, or fashionable lawyer and real estate offices. The air is filled by the sounds of construction, car horns and trucks backing up. There is a gaggle of topless, construction workers across the street, drinking cokes and puffing on filtered cigarettes, their naked chests gleaming with sweat, and tight little buns fitted into leather belted blue jeans.
Naturally they don't even glance at me as they hoot and whistle at a group of young girls half a block away. I sigh and imagine being one of the girls, unadorned by foundation, powder, blusher and lipstick, my long hair swinging freely down my back, filled with the innocent pride and heedless confidence of the young and beautiful.
”Once,” I remind myself,”Once you were one of them. Your breasts bouncing merrily under a tight sweater, your buttocks firm and your long legs eating up the sidewalk. Those were the days when you couldn’t walk down the street without cars honking and workmen cheering you one. Ah, you were a real beauty those days and no man nor boy was good enough for you!”
An unexpected tear blurs my vision and I delicately brush it aside, careful not to smear the mascara. Three middle aged men come toward me, blocking my passage. Two of them walk swiftly by, their blank eyed glazes dismissing my presence. The third murmured, “Excuse me, ‘madam.” after he bumped into me.
“Madam!” I think,” Madam! I bet he wouldn’t have said that 30 years ago! Madam indeed!”
Somewhat out of breath, I sit down at my favorite sidewalk cafe. I barely register the trim young thing in the mini skirt asking if I want a menu. “No, just a cup of Earl Grey tea and a bran muffin, please” The waitress nods and turns away. There was no eye contact and I wonder if I have become invisible. She must be new here, I decide, all the other girls call me by name.
“Just a minute, dear!” I say as the waitress put a tea pot, cup, napkin and muffin down. “Just a moment, please.” The girl halted in mid step, “Yes?”
“My name is Dorothy, you’re new here, aren't you?” I say, smiling brightly at the waitress.
“I suppose so,” the obviously impatient girl says, “I’ve got to get back to work now. Do you want anything else, Madam?”
“No, thank you,” I tell the waitress’s retreating back. the tea was luke warm and the usually fresh muffin tasted stale. I finish them off and pay my bill, leaving a one dollar tip. “One has to be patient,” I tell myself, mildly irritated by the waitress’s indifference. “Once you were as thoughtless as as her.”
Making my way down the street, I decide not to drop in at the Senior Center. “Just a bunch of old women, whining about their bunions and their ungrateful children,” I mutter, “You never liked knitting or bingo anyway!” Ignoring my aching feet, I decide to go to the park and watch the tennis players on the public courts.
There is a set of matched doubles playing. A lovely blond laughs as she misses the ball and her partner dives for it, barely skipping it over the net. The other couple are a bit older, maybe in their early thirties, their dark brown hair neatly tucked behind matching head bands. Some thing about them tells me they are lovers, perhaps its the gentle way the man touches his partner’s shoulder or the warmth in her eyes as she looks back at him. Their bodies seem linked by an invisible cord, dancing back and forth across the court, simultaneously shaking their heads when a ball goes out of bounds or doesn’t clear the net. An onslaught of tears blurs my vision again, but this time I ignore them as long buried memories and desires sweep through me.
My nipples tingle and heat floods my loins, as my tongue flicks lightly over my thin lips. I imagine I am the girl swinging the racket, flashing seductive glances in unison with my dancing legs, secure in the knowledge of my desirability. I recall the glorious days of my youth when my phone never stopped ringing, when I could dangle three boyfriends at a time, each of them thinking he was the only one. There was the editorial writer during my thirties, along with the free lance photographer, and the manager of the local ball club waiting for me to make up my mind and settle down with one of the. The pickings were slimmer in my forties and fifties as divorced or slightly separated middle aged men came to me for tea and comfort. But there was always someone around, someone to touch me, feel the warmth of my body, someone who wanted me.
”When did it stop?” I wonder. “Where did Bill and John and Michael and alan and all those nameless ones go to? Did they die? Were they swallowed up by some monster, buried by an avalanche? Should I have married, had children, or shacked up with one of them? When did I grow old and does that mean, i should give up on love?”
My rebellious body continues to tingle with anticipation, I’m aware of the heat and moisture emoting from my vagina, the subtle pressure of my clitoris, the hardness of my nipples. Watching the male tennis players, I want to hold one, to wrap my legs around him, to draw him into my depths. Beads of sweat run down my cheeks, my knees tremble and my breath comes faster. “Ah!” i sign out loud,” Ah!” and the tennis players completely oblivious to the erotic drama across the park, pack up their rackets and go their separate ways. 
 Tales for a Winter Night
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