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Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
That's What She Said
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Wednesday
May132009

Lady Love

The other day I was headed to a local sushi joint to pick up some miso soup for one of my producers who was sick. I had ordered the soup and some edamame over the phone and just had to pop in to pay and pick it up. I entered the business which reminds me of a New York restaurant. About 500 square feet, tables packed in like desks in a public school classroom. The hostess asked my name and ran to get my order.

I stood awkwardly at the entrance waiting for my grub. There were three diners. A couple in the far corner and a person parked at the sushi bar. I say person because I couldn't judge the sex from the back. Dressed in head to toe denim, this person had a gray mohawk that saluted the sky. This wasn't a thin mohawk, shellacked to a hard crust. It was a lovely, fluffy, well conditioned mohawk that stood at attention about two, maybe three inches off the tan scalp. Boy was it tan. A beautifully smooth, shiny dome. But the mohawk wasn't the most unusual thing about this person's hair style.

Above the right ear was a chunk of hair that hung nearly to the floor. Kind of like a tail, but over the ear. The hair was wrapped in multi-colored threads, the kind your average hippie will often employ to decorate dreads. This was exciting to me as one doesn't often spot a person of this uniqueness hanging around Salt Lake City. Serge and I enjoy our rare homeless person sightings at it reminds us of our Brooklyn days.

A tattoo marked the back of this person's head, directly below the mohawk, above the nape of the neck. While I was joyfully taking in the individuality on display the person turned around. She flashed a giant set of pearly whites, all the more gleaming set in her leather skin. She must have logged thousands of hours atop a motorcycle, winds whipping the 'hawk into a wild tangle of gray. I judged her to be at least 55.
"What a beautiful dress!" She proclaimed.
"Thanks, it's actually an old maternity dress."
"Well, the color really suits you." She continued to look at me which required her to twist all the way around in her chair.
"Thanks." I shuffled my feet, uncomfortable under her very direct gaze. Finally, she turned back to her dinner. Seconds later, she was sizing me up again.
"Really, you're like a breath of summer." Or something like that. I promptly forget what she said because she leaned toward me, hand outstretched. For a second I thought she was trying to touch the dress she was complimenting then realized she was reaching for a handshake. I met her halfway and we grasped hands.

And then I felt more.

Her index finger snaked up my palm and onto my wrist, squeezing my pulse ever so delicately. Oh my. I was startled but maintained. Is this some kind of lesbian signal, I wondered? If so, she's over me because I didn't respond in kind.

At that moment the hostess beckoned me to the back of the restaurant to pay for my order. While my debit card was authorizing I briefly considered offering her my hand and index finger on my way out. Just to see what would happen, you see. I'm nothing if not an investigative journalist. But I'm also a giant pussy. So I grabbed my receipt, told the awesome lesbian to have a good one and continued on my way. But I'll be damned if I didn't have a bounce in my step as I returned to my car. It's totally the first time I've been hit on since having Violet. Cougar lesbian or no, I'll take it. And run with it.