Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Iris floated down the steps of Rapacine’s brownstone, enjoying the scent bubble of her new perfume.
She didn’t know what to make of Rapacine’s exaggerated promises, but the fragrance was spectacular.
Iris felt lovelier and lighter than she had in months, maybe years.
The scent was such a mood booster; it made Iris more keenly aware of the pleasure of her surroundings: the sun filtering through the leaves, dappling the street and warming her bare shoulders, the soft breeze against the nape of her neck, the charm of the manicured hedges and flower boxes of the neighboring brownstones.
She was newly grateful for this beautiful Saturday in her beautiful life.
Iris caught sight of her reflection in a shop window.
She didn’t look any different, she didn’t even look particularly good.
She was wearing the easy house clothes of a weekend morning: cuffed overalls, Birkenstocks, and a cotton tank, with her hair on its third day yanked up in a clip with a handkerchief as a headband.
But in her new mood, the look felt effortless, insouciant, even sexy.
She wasn’t a person who tried too hard, she was just herself, and it turned out herself was adorable.
Iris stepped onto Hudson Street and sniffed her wrist again with a smile.
She turned the corner to where the weekend brunchers at Oscar’s Place were dining al fresco within a little border wall of painted plywood and topped with potted geraniums. Iris caught whiffs of the salty, fatty bacon and syrupy French toast as she walked by, making her stomach growl.
But what she didn’t catch was the diners’ heads lifting in the wake of her scent, pausing mid-date-recap, a hand halted on its path to steal a French fry, for something in their lizard brain telling them to stop, to notice, and to seek the source of a smell more delectable than anything on the plates before them.
They might not have realized that it was the average-looking woman passing by who had attracted their attention, only that they’d lost their train of thought.
Once Iris was a few paces beyond their checkerboard tables, her scent trail dissipated, and with it their curiosity, and focus returned to their companion’s fries.
She popped in to the nearby health food store where the air-conditioning was uncomfortably cold, so she beelined around to gather her items from the maze of narrow aisles.
She and a male employee shelving stock had to do a wordless do-si-do for Iris to reach a bewildering array of nut butters. He asked her if she needed any help.
“I’m just looking for normal chunky peanut butter.”
He shook his curly hair off his face. “I got you, it’s right…here.” He handed her the jar, then pointed to the container of raspberries in her arms. “You know, we just got a fresh produce shipment, haven’t put it out on the shelves yet. Can I get you fresher raspberries?”
“Oh, these seem okay, I’m about to check out.”
“Perfect! I’ll bring it straight to the register, gimme one second, I’ll meet you up there.” He snatched her old berries and ran off to the back of the store.
He reminded her of a high school boy eager to carry her books, and he didn’t look much older than one—not that Iris had ever gotten that sort of attention in school.
She’d been coming to this grocer off and on for the last five years, and never once had any of the employees spoken to her unless she explicitly asked for help.
There were two long lines at checkout, but before she could take her place at the back of one, the stocker came jogging up and opened a new register to ring her up so she wouldn’t have to wait.
“Do you live in the neighborhood? We offer free local delivery.”
“I do, but it’s just one bag, and I don’t meet the minimum for delivery anyway.”
“That doesn’t matter. We’re not busy today.”
“Well…do you mind if I add a pack of those?” She pointed to the boxes of La Croix seltzer stacked at the endcap. “Then I’ll meet the minimum at least. Or am I just making it heavier for you?”
“That’s not heavy for me at all.” He puffed out his chest.
She chuckled.
—
Back on Hudson Street, she passed by PS 3, the local grammar school, where a gaggle of elementary-aged campers in sunny yellow shirts had gathered on the sidewalk, like dandelions dotting the pavement.
When Iris got closer, she paused to admire the chalk artwork of two little girls crouching to color in a pastel butterfly.
One of the girls squinted up at her and asked, “Are you a fairy princess?”
Iris laughed, then bent to whisper, “ Shh, in disguise!” She pantomimed tapping both girls with a magic wand. “And now you’re both secret princesses too!”
The girls squealed. Iris walked away feeling more magical than before.
Strains of Latin music thrummed from somewhere up Christopher Street, and she detoured on her way home to check it out.
She found a street fair on Bleecker abuzz with streams of people and stalls lining both sides of the street.
She passed a fruit smoothie stand as one of its workers chopped up a whole pineapple using a hand ax with mesmerizing speed and skill, releasing atomized juice with each whack; it was glorious to catch wind of the tropical sweetness.
She sniffed her wrist again, noticing new fruity facets of the perfume.
Though that was just one of the riot of aromas that surrounded her: fragrant steam billowing from the sizzling cooktop of a Cuban sandwich vendor, carrying the mouthwatering scent of pulled pork; the peaty, mossy smell from a vendor selling potted plants and bonsai trees; the earthy patchouli of the CBD head shop; the buttery, slightly sour notes from racks of leather jackets and purses; all laced with the piquant odor of sticky summer bodies moving slowly past one another.
She figured her perfume wouldn’t stand a chance here.
The music was coming from a dance floor set up in the intersection with West Tenth Street where the salsa group Baila Nueva York had two couples of trained Latin dancers performing alongside passersby who had joined in.
Iris recognized the group’s name; they hosted sunset dances by the Hudson River some nights.
She had always wanted to try it out with Ben, but he wasn’t into it.
She marveled at the professionals whirling around one another, moving their bodies perfectly in sync to the beat and with each other.
Of the amateurs, there was an elderly couple dancing as though they hadn’t missed a beat in forty years, and two college-aged kids who leaned heavy on the spins.
Only the couple dancing with their arms around their chubby-limbed infant in a papoose gave Iris a pang of envy.
At a break between the songs, one female pro dancer had stepped offstage, leaving her partner alone when the music started back up. He spotted Iris and reached his hand to her in invitation. On impulse, she accepted, and he pulled her up onto the stage easily.
He lifted her right hand in his left and placed his right on her upper back.
Her other hand rested naturally on his shoulder, and she felt the heat of his body through his shirt.
He was wearing a long-sleeved button-down, the top three buttons undone to reveal a tan chest, a corner of a tattoo on his pectoral, and a crucifix on a gold chain.
He was barely taller than she, but trim, muscular, and glowing with sweat.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she shouted over the music blasting.
He grinned and lifted her arm over her head to spin her and pull her back toward him. “Your body knows! Just feel the music and follow me.”
And so they danced. He started leading her in a gentle retreat and advance to the music, and she surprised herself that she was able to follow instinctually.
Soon she was mimicking the swivel of his hips, and adding her own flourishes, laughing when he raised his eyebrows in approval.
She stopped thinking and let the rhythm of the drums and the euphoria of the horns take over her being.
As her partner was winding and unwinding her in his arms, guiding her close and away as they spun around each other, she would catch only glimpses of the world around her, his pursed lips, his brow glistening in the sun, the crowd of people and color.
Iris got down, flushed and exhilarated, as the small audience applauded. She wasn’t used to calling attention to herself, but her shyness was eclipsed by pure joy.
She made a mental note to look into salsa lessons.
She wandered farther along the street fair, pausing often to poke around a stall.
She stopped at a table of Tibetan jewelry, drawn to the silver, lapis, and coral like a magpie.
She asked to try on a collar-style necklace but struggled with the clasp.
The elderly proprietor slowly rose to help her.
Iris lifted the hair off the back of her neck while he gently clicked it into place.
He held up a small mirror for her to see it.
It was bolder than the delicate jewelry she normally wore, but she liked that.
She felt strong. She could see herself wearing it with a crisp white shirt, asking Frank for a raise and getting it.
She thanked the man for his help and got the necklace off by herself. The handwritten sticker price was blurred. “Does that say seventy dollars?”
“For you? Forty.”
“Aw, no, it definitely doesn’t say that.”
He nodded. There was a softness in his face and a glistening in his eyes.
“You smell like my wife on our wedding day. More than fifty years ago. She sent you from heaven to say hello and to make me feel nineteen again.” He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply.
“If I could give it to you for free, I would.”
It was enough to make Iris choke up.
And so commenced an argument where Iris was haggling to pay more for the necklace. In the end she managed to press two twenties into his hands and toss a third onto the table, then run away before he could get his cane to chase her.
Iris paused to retie the bandanna in her hair.
As she raked her fingers through her short waves, she caught a whiff again of the perfume, only now the sunny top notes had mellowed, no longer effervescent but a tangy glaze over the rich florals.
There was a salty note, too, that made the scent soft, warm, and close.
She loved it even more. It perfectly suited this gorgeous day waning into twilight.
The sun had begun to sink in the sky, beaming its warm golden light across the street at every intersection while the short blocks rested in cool blue shade.
A cellist sat in the amber glow on the corner of Perry and Bleecker, and the instrument’s yearning tones floated above the din of the crowd.
Iris dropped the few dollars she had left into his case with a smile, and he gave a nod of gratitude.
She was imbued with a deep appreciation for this city’s people, colors, tastes, smells, and music.
As Iris sidled through the streams of slow walkers, distracted trying to remember the dry cleaner’s weekend hours, someone grabbed her backside, hard.
Her brain raced through rationalizations: someone had bumped her, it was an accident—but in her gut the violation was obvious: Someone had groped her.
She spun to see who but was faced with an anonymous crowd, people moving around her in every direction, every one of them invading her space by necessity but none of them reacting to what had just happened to her.
It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself, she shouldn’t overreact, this wasn’t the type of scenario in which one would scream.
Was it? No, the threat was gone. But it hadn’t been playful, it had hurt.
She should have said something, cussed—at least a stern “Hey!”—but she hadn’t reacted fast enough.
She didn’t even see him. Maybe it was that man in the Oakleys, but he was with a woman, but maybe that didn’t matter?
Or that guy on the skateboard rolling away, some punk faking nonchalance?
Or that guy with the backpack, was he walking away strangely fast?
There were many men in the crowd, which suddenly made her feel claustrophobic. It could have been any of them.
Iris hurried home.