Pretty girl

The pretty girl was confused. She was accustomed to attention, had
been all her life. Flowers and turning heads, the perks and gifts from
strange men. But this was different. Very different. Not at all like
the night clubs or at the beach. No one whistled. And few smiled.
Except for the women. There was satisfaction in their smiles. The
pretty girl saw this.

She remembered Saturday night. Or at least parts of it. She had worn
her red dress. That red dress. The red dress that no other girl, in
this town at least, could wear, or would wear. That scandalous red
dress, her hair down and no make-up. Never any make-up. This pretty
girl needed none.

She danced and drank and smoked. Flirting, hugging, kissing any boy
that came her way. Until there were no more boys, just a man with a
broom, and all the lights were on and it was time to leave.

So the pretty girl walked home, alone, as she always did. As, it seemed
to her, she always would. "One day I'll ask that man with the broom to
dance," she thought, laughing, running on the warm sand. "And if he
refuses, I'll dance with his broom." Then, yelling at the approaching
dawn, "And if the broom refuses, I'll die." And the dawn seemed to
answer with a gust of wind that slipped under that red dress and
enveloped the pretty girl. A silky undergarment made of wind, caressing
her stomach and buttocks, making her laugh. "You can't die," the wind
seemed to say, "We love you, pretty girl."

Walking in deep, foreign footprints, to the water and back, the pretty
girl knew that this was best part of a Saturday night. So familiar. So
exhilarating. Lots of goosebumps and that salt water smell. The dog
that always barked, the sound of the gulls as their day began, and the
old woman who watched from her bedroom window, scowling, always
scowling. Once the pretty girl waved and said, "Hello." But the old
woman just scowled back. Maybe it was all this old woman could do, the
pretty girl thought. "Maybe she's God's scowler."

And, especially on nights like this, when the heat had little need for
the sun, the pretty girl would stop for a swim. Stepping from the red
dress that was now a red circle at her feet she walked into the warm
ocean. How the water adored the pretty girl. "So nice to see you," the
splashes seemed to say. "How we missed you," and, "What can we do to
make you happy?" And the pretty girl would splash and laugh and dunk.
The best part of the best part of a Saturday night.

Then, stepping into the red circle, pulling up the red dress, now
transparent and even more scandalous, if indeed, a dress could ever be
more scandalous, the pretty girl continued on her journey home.

Past that little bend of the giant rock where the waves were noisiest
and where fishermen whistled and smiled and asked how she was doing
today. "You sure are pretty," they would say, wanting to at least say
more, but never able to. Onto that private beach where she knew she
shouldn't walk but always did. A pretty girl only a private beach could
dream of. And up over that grassy knoll and the loneliest stretch of
her journey home.

Now was when she'd usually sing. Some song, most likely some last
request at the night club. Her last dance. The last dance. Adding
harmonies to a non-existent lead vocal, she would saunter and swing her
hips, towards the road that led to the house where she lived. A small
road, unpaved, as many beachside roads seemed to be. Lined with faded
three and four room houses, filled with smells of last night's dinner
and lemon scented furniture polish. Her house, once lime green, waited
at the end of this block, atop a small hill. A hill not high enough for
views.

On her porch she greeted some neighbour's cat who seemed to think that
this was its home. "Hello, little cat," the pretty girl said, bending
to scratch the cat's neck. "Meow," the cat answered, it's eyes
sparkling. The pretty girl thought for a moment about how she had never
before noticed the sparkle in this cat's eyes, then stood and entered
her house.

Once inside, the pretty girl reached for the light switch that would
turn on the living room's solitary lamp. But before she could, hands
grabbed her from behind and she was thrown to the bare wood
floor.

The first kick was to her stomach. "Please stop," the pretty girl
cried. But the kicks continued. To her head, her back, her chest. She
tried to protect herself but couldn't. The kicks came from everywhere.
Seemingly dozens of legs kicking and as many voices screaming at the
pretty girl.

Then something crashed down upon her leg. Not a fist, something harder,
a baseball bat maybe, or a lead pipe. The pretty girl didn't know, she
was afraid to look. The object hit her leg again, but with more force,
breaking a bone at least, she thought. The next blow was to her side,
then came one to her arm, and then one to her head.

This was all the pretty girl remembered about that night.

And now she was here, uncomfortable, cold. Very cold. She wanted to
dance.
She wanted to run and feel the sand at her feet. But those acts seemed
inappropriate, at least at the moment. No one was whistling. And few
smiled.

Except for the women. Why did the women smile so?

The pretty girl was confused. And she felt tired. So eternally tired.
Maybe she should rest, at least for a while.