Read Online Pages for You by Sylvia Brownrigg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sylvia Brownrigg
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women, one older, one younger, making their boot-and-shoed way along the great, grimy sidewalk.
“Even you, Flannery,” Anne said, and there was a keenness, an edge in her voice that gave the student hope suddenly. It was not the edge of instruction or sarcasm: it was an edge that might cut into some different heart altogether. Flannery heard it. She listened carefully.
“—If only you knew it.”
N ot long after, they stopped at a dank vacant lot near Prince Street, where stalls clustered together selling scarves and T-shirts, earrings and incense.
“I want to buy you something,” Anne said. “I want to buy you a present.”
“For me?” Flannery said stupidly.
“Don’t blush, for God’s sake. You and your blushing—you’re like some Victorian maiden.”
It was more the tone Flannery was used to from her, but still there was an intimacy in it that caught at Flannery’s throat. She’d noticed her blushing! Wasn’t that a kind of compliment? And the word “maiden” hummed in her ears, thrilling her with its mysterious erotic import.
“Well, you act like some stern Victorian mistress. No wonder I blush.”
The boldness of the reply made Anne pause to look at her with a raised brow and a slight upturning of the pretty corners of her mouth.
“See? Now you’re blushing, too.”
“I am not.”
Anne found the stall she was looking for. Sunglasses, apparently. She looked at a selection of different styles, from sleazy drug dealer to minimal Lennon, retro cat’s-eyes or cool oval blue. Each kind she placed on Flannery’s head, then stood back from her, holding her shoulders, watching her intently. Scrutinizing. Assessing. Flannery would certainly have blushed under this attention ordinarily, but she was enjoying herself too much to now. Finally Anne chose a pair to her liking. She turned Flannery around to give her an instant’s reflection in one of the tiny mirrors, but it was clear there would be no debate about it, as Anne was already paying the Chinese man for them. In fact, as Flannery looked at herself in the mirror, she didn’t quite recognize herself. She liked that.
“Sunglasses? In autumn?” she said, starting to fold them up and put them in her pocket as they walked away.
“Keep them on! Christ. That’s the whole point.” Anne tapped her lightly. Affectionately, it seemed to Flannery. “Your eyes keep wandering around wildly, as if you were from some tiny one-horse town and had never been to a city before. You’ll be safer if you keep them on. Then no one will know how young and innocent you are.”
“Oh.” It was an insult, obviously, but Flannery smiled anyway. She felt sharp in her new shades. Anne had chosen for her a slickly chic look.
“No one, that is, except me.”
T o be in this city alongside this woman was an airy exhilaration for Flannery. It was like flying. It was the story you tell your wakeful self before sleep, sure it will never take on the full, lit shape of reality.
In her sunglasses Flannery could look around her with impunity at the diverse, infinite faces; at the blurred jostlings and fast-chattering hawkers and random, optimistic runners; at the rampant signs and signals that competed boisterously against the fundamental drabbery of the city’s miles of stone. None of it bore any relation to the collective life in the cities she knew at home. She was here without reference. Often she did not understand what she was looking at. There were pages and pages of books that had turned this city into dazzling fiction, some Flannery had read and many more that she would read through her future. But for now, open and ignorant, she let Anne be the author of what she saw, and the muse for what she would later re-create.
Anne knew the city the way you do a lover, and she had a lover’s indulgence, a way of seeing charm and fancy where there was ostensibly none. As they walked, she pointed out buildings to Flannery that had a history public (“Auden used to
“Even you, Flannery,” Anne said, and there was a keenness, an edge in her voice that gave the student hope suddenly. It was not the edge of instruction or sarcasm: it was an edge that might cut into some different heart altogether. Flannery heard it. She listened carefully.
“—If only you knew it.”
N ot long after, they stopped at a dank vacant lot near Prince Street, where stalls clustered together selling scarves and T-shirts, earrings and incense.
“I want to buy you something,” Anne said. “I want to buy you a present.”
“For me?” Flannery said stupidly.
“Don’t blush, for God’s sake. You and your blushing—you’re like some Victorian maiden.”
It was more the tone Flannery was used to from her, but still there was an intimacy in it that caught at Flannery’s throat. She’d noticed her blushing! Wasn’t that a kind of compliment? And the word “maiden” hummed in her ears, thrilling her with its mysterious erotic import.
“Well, you act like some stern Victorian mistress. No wonder I blush.”
The boldness of the reply made Anne pause to look at her with a raised brow and a slight upturning of the pretty corners of her mouth.
“See? Now you’re blushing, too.”
“I am not.”
Anne found the stall she was looking for. Sunglasses, apparently. She looked at a selection of different styles, from sleazy drug dealer to minimal Lennon, retro cat’s-eyes or cool oval blue. Each kind she placed on Flannery’s head, then stood back from her, holding her shoulders, watching her intently. Scrutinizing. Assessing. Flannery would certainly have blushed under this attention ordinarily, but she was enjoying herself too much to now. Finally Anne chose a pair to her liking. She turned Flannery around to give her an instant’s reflection in one of the tiny mirrors, but it was clear there would be no debate about it, as Anne was already paying the Chinese man for them. In fact, as Flannery looked at herself in the mirror, she didn’t quite recognize herself. She liked that.
“Sunglasses? In autumn?” she said, starting to fold them up and put them in her pocket as they walked away.
“Keep them on! Christ. That’s the whole point.” Anne tapped her lightly. Affectionately, it seemed to Flannery. “Your eyes keep wandering around wildly, as if you were from some tiny one-horse town and had never been to a city before. You’ll be safer if you keep them on. Then no one will know how young and innocent you are.”
“Oh.” It was an insult, obviously, but Flannery smiled anyway. She felt sharp in her new shades. Anne had chosen for her a slickly chic look.
“No one, that is, except me.”
T o be in this city alongside this woman was an airy exhilaration for Flannery. It was like flying. It was the story you tell your wakeful self before sleep, sure it will never take on the full, lit shape of reality.
In her sunglasses Flannery could look around her with impunity at the diverse, infinite faces; at the blurred jostlings and fast-chattering hawkers and random, optimistic runners; at the rampant signs and signals that competed boisterously against the fundamental drabbery of the city’s miles of stone. None of it bore any relation to the collective life in the cities she knew at home. She was here without reference. Often she did not understand what she was looking at. There were pages and pages of books that had turned this city into dazzling fiction, some Flannery had read and many more that she would read through her future. But for now, open and ignorant, she let Anne be the author of what she saw, and the muse for what she would later re-create.
Anne knew the city the way you do a lover, and she had a lover’s indulgence, a way of seeing charm and fancy where there was ostensibly none. As they walked, she pointed out buildings to Flannery that had a history public (“Auden used to
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