Arlene and Annabelle
Shoulder to shoulder they stand. Some wonder if the arms of their coats are sewn together. As one dips in laughter, so does the other. One in a black fake fur coat, one in tan. Arlene in black and Annabelle in tan. They glance behind their backs, sweep their coats and dresses under with their hand as they sit down on a wood slat bench, letting their feet flip up and dangle down- all in one motion, as if rehearsed.
They watch the black and white poodles march their owners back and forth down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. The women gasp as two poodles head straight towards each other pulling oblivious owners. Like a magician’s assistant cut in half, the dogs pass through each other without touching. The women giggle. Gasp. Giggle again. And then between the sea of poodles and people, straps and hats, a warm light turns on in a dark shop window.
Arlene looks at Annabelle and Annabelle looks at Arlene. The giggling stops. They reach into their coats, pulling out their binoculars, and turning the center dial to focus on the yellow glow. Blips of hats interrupt their gaze. The man in the window, white shirt, black suspenders, looks out into the evening, walks towards the window and in one rough gesture pulls the curtains closed and walks away. As the curtains settle, a sliver stays uncovered, the fabric slightly parted. Annabelle pulls down her binoculars, slipping them into the case and taking out a brown metal phone directory. Sliding her finger down the row of engraved letters, she waits.
“M. D.” Arlene whispers out the side of her mouth.
Annabelle slides the tab to D. She presses a bar at the bottom and the case pops open. Lined pages reveal names, crossed out, except for “Mildred.” The man in the window stares towards the window. Arlene gasps as his vision lands directly through the channels of her binoculars.
Did he see me? she wonders.
She pulls them down and looks down, sticks her pointer finger under her fake pearls and slides her finger back and forth, a nervous habit, a dull vibrating sound as her finger scrapes the back of each pearl. Annabelle looks at Arlene. Arlene puts down her hand in frustration and anger, replaces the binoculars on her eyes.
Don’t be afraid she tells herself.
A brown bag sits in the center of a wooden work table. The initials M.D. are pinned to the bag with a hatpin. The man pulls a low wood tray from under the table and empties the bag inside it. Black and cream colored balls roll around in the tray. He throws the bag away, returns to the tray and tips it right then left, watching their speed and rotation. Then he pulls them out one by one and spins them on the table, watches to see if they are perfectly round. After testing 2, he pushes the tray aside and pulls a phone to the table. lifts up the receiver and rotates the dial.
“3...1...4...3...4...6...2...6...” Arlene whispers.
Annabelle closes the directory, a signal that the number is correct. Arlene puts away her binoculars as Annabelle slips the directory under her coat. In one motion they get up, turn around, grab a leash hooked on the bench’s wrought iron filigree. The seams of their stockings cut like scissors down the road as Arlene goes left and Annabelle goes right. Never looking down at their poodles.