brookline phobia

let's say it was around 9 36 this morning -the reason i do not remember the exact time is because i still do not wear a watch; a childhood peeve that i have not quite gotten over yet -and i was strolling down to work in a grey-white striped button-up shirt and tan pants. my dress shoes -i had bought them around seven months ago from a store in vernon hills, IL -I have to add, make a very characteristic shuffle when i walk. i'd like to think it's not my messed up gait that contributes largely to this annoying noise, but i choose to move forward anyway. hopeful, yes. that no one would notice or hear.

however, this morning was an extreme. i call it extreme because i am still baffled, slightly mortified and uncannily whimsical since the event this morning. it's been two hours, almost.

this is what happened. while i am mindlessly walking down brookline avenue, i am randomly stopped by a square african-american woman. i look at her closely; her lips are chattering. she is muttering something to herself in a language that is definitely not english. her fists are clenched tight enough to crush the head of a five-year old child. and she's awkwardly checking me out. i am slightly uncomfortable, so i return the (dis)favor. i will not go into details. but most noticeably she's got curly brown hair, dyed awkwardly in patches of blonde. she's wearing an orange-rimmed pair of spectacles. she has a bible in her purse -it is jutting out through the tip of the zipper. and she's overweight. after a minute of checking each other out -she spits at me and tells me. your walk reminds me of that ghost my husband had. i thought it was gone. but now you come.

walk away from me, she says. tell me you're sorry. i knew i would hear you someday.

i paused. said sorry. and left.