Dear Wigleaf,

I'm still in New York. I know, I know, I can't stay here forever. I have that job and that mortgage on that suburban house in that suburban yard full of suburban leaves that just keep falling, falling, falling. But here I am, riding the subway, hailing a taxi, buttoning my coat against the late autumn wind on Central Park West. I've told you before, Wigleaf, if I could just disappear from out there and focus on here. Here. I saw her again this afternoon. She was coming out of Starbucks at Broadway and 103rd. She wore a bright orange silk scarf and desert camo fatigues. What can I do, Wigleaf? The six-foot blond angel with the fuck-you-very-much androgynous glare smiled at me today. She looked right at me, with those searching wide eyes, and she smiled. You know me, Wigleaf; I am invisible. I am a masquerade. A forty-year-old woman in skater boy shoes. But every day I am here in New York, I see the androgynous goddess of Broadway, and I am heartened. I am in love.

What can I do, Wigleaf?

Your Friend,
Mary Lynn






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Read MLR's story, "On the Way to Death Valley."

w i g · l e a F               01-24-09                                [home]