Free Blue Rose In Chelsea by Adriana Devoy Page A

smells of people, and roasted chestnuts mingled with the smell of rain on pavement.  It is dizzying to navigate the jet stream of commuters pouring out of Penn Station.  Careen has bought herself two slices of pizza from Enrico Caruso’s.  “Wasn’t he an opera singer?” she manages through mouthfuls of marinara.  I’m starving, but I have it in my head that somehow, someway, I may cross paths with Evan today, and I don’t want to risk smearing my red lip-gloss or dripping food on myself, or getting garlic on my breath.
         Careen has managed to locate the coffee shop referenced in her friend Hazel’s phone bill.
         “What exactly are we going to do once we get there?  Confront this woman?  Tackle her to the carpet and beat her up?”
         “I personally would like to knock her lights out, but of course I am a woman of superhuman restraint in matters of delicacy,” Careen says, punching her empty paper plates of pizza into the overstuffed trash can, before yanking forward the collar of her early eighties pink striped blazer against the onslaught of wind on the avenue.  “I have recruited Dylan.  He’s meeting us at the corner near the iguana loft.  The plan is to have a handsome man approach her and chat her up, see what he can determine, perhaps flirt a bit, while we skulk about in the shadows.”
         I try to imagine Dylan in the role of charming interrogator but I can’t quite conjure the image.
         “I think Dylan is too crude for the job.  He’s not used to having to woo women.  They generally throw themselves at him at gigs,” I say.
         “Yes, my thoughts exactly, which is why we must give him a bit of coaching beforehand.”
         “Coaching Dylan?  The Man Who Knows Everything?  Oh, this ought to be good.”
         I struggle to keep step with Careen’s long strides.  At five foot six inches, I am a decent height, but Careen towers three inches above me, and swallows up city blocks like a loping gazelle.  Her attention is roped away by Kelly-green pumps in a shoe store window.  I glance down at Careen’s flat white Capezio shoes, pink legwarmers scrunched at the ankles, and try to imagine her enormous feet in the green pumps.
         “They’re very green,” is the best I can say for them, when pressed for an opinion.  I review my own appearance in the reflection of the store window.  I’m wearing a black and pink print rayon pinafore—another fabulous clearance find—that is gathered at the waist and floating a foot above my knees, with black star-shaped beads for buttons snaking down the front, two of which I’ve left undone.  My legs are wrapped in the usual black dance tights; my feet tucked into heeled suede boots the color of a smoky blue gas flame (though a half size too small, but beggars can’t be choosey, and dancers learn to live with sore feet).  A black sweater with clunky gold buttons—nabbed from Mom’s closet—is draped over my shoulders.  I finger comb my hair; it still has volume from the blow-dry and hasn’t drooped yet, despite an unseasonable humidity.
         “Yes, they would provide endless commentary for Mr. Palmer,” she says, moving on to a silver pair.
         I glance about me, surrounded by the unbounded heights of the buildings, and ever-present sound of horns honking and traffic trawling, like some sort of twelve-tone musical composition.
         We are officially in Evan’s neighborhood, which means he could, at any moment, walk past us, or step out of a store, or if I turn quickly without regard for where I’m headed, the person I bump into may be him.  Not likely, but the possibility invokes its own roller coaster ride of thrills.  I could almost be content to remain here on this corner forever, like a cracked fountain of hope, leaking all my longing onto the gritty streets.  I am not even sure he’s in the city; he could still be on the west coast.
         And then I see