“C’mon Baby”

It fell off her tongue, a desperate want, a sweet urgent plea, almost musical, almost inspired. She only meets my eyes briefly, I meet hers briefer still. If my embarrassment for her escapes she will become angry, she will hold me responsible. The one she’s cornered, her potential, will have time for second thoughts, he might leave her standing in the hot sun, palm extended, frantic.
She takes both hands to her breasts holding herself there, causing them to bounce erratically. It once was a sure thing. An action done in earlier years when less drugs lived inside of her; an action that would’ve guaranteed a reaction; possibly a moan, now just silence, sadness. She is accustomed to offering her body for: money, pesos, dolares, shekels? Her dirty skirt rides up just enough to be enticing; her thick mottled thighs will rub together when she walks away. She goes quickly from one to another, the harder men dismissing her with grunts and loathing, while always keeping her eyes on the soft quiet man. I bask in the uncertainty that radiates from him. He seems to know that it must be bad for her though she dances and sways as if this is exactly where she chooses to be. One could imagine that if offered Egypt, China or Rome, she would choose to stand on Central Ave. at the Chevron station begging for change, begging for money.
Her color is the same as mine and though I am not dancing, I hear the song as well. Her full asymmetrical hips tell me she has a child at home, one with long black lashes and a tooth missing in front. Her tone announces that she doesn’t care about such things; neither she nor I believe that. The nice man allows her to hold the pump handle and guide the nozzle into the small circular blackness. Her entirety softens, becomes even more feminine, a vixen watching the numbers ascend as they make the sound that only a gas station pump can make. A bearded man twitches while he sits on the curb trying not to watch, trying to appear as if they are not together. He doesn’t want the men to see that her thick dance is for him as well. That he too will be able to kiss the needle once the sound stops, the sound that only ascending numbers from a gas station pump can make.
I never saw money exchange hands but I did see her glow, blaze with contentment. I did see the man that had been sitting on the curb begin to stand roughly, the smile on his face making his tangled beard move. They begin walking away in the direction of Central that I dare not take. In the direction of darkness even though the sun shines brightly. The man and I exchange a glance that lasts no longer than mine did with the dancing woman. His stare informs me that I belong on the other side of the city. The L.A. where school boys in starched white shirts, dark pants and helmets ride motorized skate boards and moderately muscled men walk dogs the size of mosquitoes. I have not fooled them. I belong on wide streets with pristine landscaping…so do they.
I don’t suspect I’ll ever see her again, or maybe I’ll see her every time I pump gas at that station. Her hair will still be tangled and twisted, smelly though I will not stand close enough to smell it. Her companion will still ignore her until she has done what he can not do. She will still not be wearing a bra though her hands will find there way up to her breasts to begin the sirens song all over again.