Every few weeks I take a trip to the mall and browse the sale racks of the department stores.  Typically, I find nothing new or of interest, but every so often I find the perfect, middle-aged-mom-of-three, high-school-teacher-and-hence-not-expected-to-dress-well sweater covered in yarn patterns, felt dogs and heart buttons.  Or a very poorly patterned, ill-fitting age appropriate skirt.  I loathe myself as I pull out my store credit card and on my way out wistfully finger the expensive fabrics of the clothes aimed at young professionals and business women who are permitted to wear such things even after their hair has turned the perfect shade of white.  I remember days when I would have been allowed to wear that blazer, or this pair of well constructed slacks and make my sad way home in my terribly functional sedan.

            However, with the recent turn of my thought to all things Bette, even my shopping trips have turned sour.  I can see her heading straight for the clothes I admire and finding the most beautiful jacket without trying.  I picture her in the stylish blouses, see her trying on the treacherous heels that I don’t even dare glance at.

            Just once I gathered the nerve to try on clothes Henry would faint at the sight and price of, ones that would have probably looked even better on her, but my frame would have to do for now.  I shyly dressed, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror until I was fully attired.  I pulled the ivory fitted sweater over my head, already conscious of how different it felt than the oversized array I had at home.  I pulled on a pair of low-rise, brown, pinstripe trousers.  I slipped on a pair of four inch, brown strappy heels, ignoring the loud protestations coming from my feet.  I turned toward the mirrors, pulling my hair down as I did.

            I froze at the sight.  In the mirror stood a woman who knew nothing of the life I’d led, one who’d seen 4 a.m. more times than she cared to recall.  I examined my figure, having not see it in decades.  It remained relatively intact, the pants accentuating an amazing ass I had no recollection I had.  For the first time I noticed my hair was a rather pleasant shade of blondish gray.  This was a look I could convincingly wear.

            The only thing that gave me away was a sort of numbness around the eyes, insulation from the harsh reality of pissing life away.  They weren’t the eyes of a jet setter or a New York professional, but those of, well, me.  The wrinkles that adorned my face weren’t smile lines that showed on so many faces I knew, but just lines of age.

            I quickly changed, the knowledge that I could be someone else cutting me like a knife.  I hung the garments on the rack outside the dressing room and hastily left the store.  I didn’t need to buy anything that day.

*          *            *            *            *

            She called back an hour later, breathless and excited.  She apologized, explaining she’d been at an art lecture.  There was a slight silence before she took control of the conversation, throwing out dates and ideas.  We quickly found a day that worked for us, choosing 11 a.m. as a nice time to meet, allowing us food as an activity right away.  We stumbled when we came to the meeting spot.  Luckily, Bette’s artistically inclined self kicked in.

            “Bethesda Fountain.”

            “What?”

            “Let’s meet in front of Bethesda Fountain.  It’s so perfectly… New York, you know?”

            “Alright,” I chuckled.  “So… Bethesda Fountain, 11 a.m. on September 28^th.”

“…  That’s exciting.  Scary exciting.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, on the one hand, I’m really scared you won’t live up to my expectations.  I have this idea in my head of how it’s going to be.  How you’ll be.  On the other, I’m scared you will live up to them.”

“Why is it bad if I do?”

“I already feel so strongly for you.  And, if you live up to what I’ve imagined, I’m fucked.”  Blunt, just as I’d come to expect from her.  And for once, I let myself say what I felt.

            “How do you think I feel about it?”  We laughed and said our goodbyes, our meeting date a mere week away.