My hands clung to the wheel while the wipers whipped back and forth. I kept picturing Mark, warm and handsome in a tuxedo somewhere. Then a tire blew out just as the city skyline came into view.
I stood in ankle-deep water, staring at the sagging tire. I had enough money for the dress because I’d skipped groceries; I could stretch another week. But not enough for a tow. So I grabbed my purse, took off the raincoat because there was no point protecting the dress now, and started walking.
Four blocks doesn’t sound far until you’re walking through mud and cold rain. My shoes were soaked through by the second block. My dress clung to my legs. Cars passed with that soft city hiss expensive tires make on wet pavement, and I saw people glance at me and look away.
By the time I reached the Ritz, I barely recognized myself in the glass. My makeup was gone, and my hair clung to my face in damp strands. The dress I’d ironed so carefully looked wrung out by hand.
I kept picturing Mark, warm and handsome in a tuxedo somewhere.
I stood there for one second and thought, Mark was right. I don’t fit there.
But I refused to turn back and pushed the doors open.
The ballroom smelled of white flowers and vanilla frosting, and then the music stopped.
Heads turned. Violin notes died mid-phrase. About 200 people in expensive clothes went quiet as they stared at the drenched woman in a ruined dress.
Someone muttered, “Who let her in?”
Someone else whispered “homeless” as if it were contagious.
