Chicagoan

     It was the weekend of German Fest. More explanation necessary?

     She wore the floral skirt that night. Paired it with a belt that served no purpose. Her satchel matched that belt perfectly. She made sure her hair was messily in order. It was especially voluptuous. She put her cell phone away for the evening. Except to check it every ten minutes or so.

     Their detailed internet directions failed them. They bypassed North Lincoln Avenue and trekked four blocks before turning around. Rachel’s internal compass was selective.

     They arrived with two minutes to spare. Ethan Cox from acting class was locking up his bike outside the door. He was the one who continually scratched his scruff, as if pawing would lengthen and thicken it. Introductions made, hands shaken. The theater was nearly full but they managed to find three seats together. A gay couple in matching plaid shirts cuddled in front of them. The show was all Christian jokes and budget costumes. There was even an intermission.

     Ethan Cox knew the actor who played Awkward Jew. Ethan Cox knew the actor who played Hunky Camp Counselor. Ethan Cox knew the actor who played Shadowy Vixen. When they left the theatre, Ethan Cox invited them to an after-party. They politely declined by nodding, smiling, and walking away.

     “Well, Happy Birthday,” she said.

     Rachel waited for the red line while she plopped down on the platform directly across the tracks. It would take Rachel nearly an hour to reach her apartment downtown. But it wasn’t very late. The drunken group was gone. A boy in short shorts had nearly fallen into the street and his friends dragged him back to ground-level. A chubby man awaited the red line train. He adjusted his backpack. Soon, the train screeched to a stop in front of him. When it pulled away, he was still there, adjusting his backpack. He walked down the steps to the street, the same path the boy and his friends had followed earlier. There was still a faint hint of summer in the air. Now she was alone.

     Another couple in matching plaid shirts, heterosexual this time, sat adjacent to her on the train. Hers, mustard, his, teal. They girl's hair was clipped short, curled on her forehead. Her boyfriend wore thick-rimmed glasses. Sometimes they would lean in to one another, exchanging soft remarks, probably about nothing in particular. Then he put his headphones in and left her to her thoughts.

     Walking down Lawrence, she started to strut. She never did that. Maybe it was the fact that night had taken a bite out of the neighborhood, lending anonymity. Or maybe it was because her satchel matched her belt so perfectly. Grants some strange confidence. She gazed straight ahead, taking the world in her hands. As she pushed the hair from her eyes, a man barked, “Hola,” in her direction. She didn’t see his face. There were purple flowers planted along the sidewalk.

     It was all very Chicago.