Girl On A Street Corner


Vivienne McCulloch
We like this story because:
...What this story does is describe how
we clothe what we see with our own
assumptions and our own cultural
language and understanding.
She stood on the corner, her face showing pale under the street lamp.  I was on my way to
bed, laptop turned off, mug and book in hand when I noticed her from my second-floor
window.  It was the first time I’d seen a hooker in my street.  I was intrigued enough to turn
off the light, go through and switch on my bedside lamp then slip back to look at her from my
chair in the darkened lounge.

At least, I was assuming she was a hooker.  Now that I was making a point of studying her, she
looked to me far prettier and healthier than any I’d seen.  Her hair was well-cut, falling in
thick, soft waves to her shoulders.  Blonde, but either it was naturally so or expensively dyed
for there was none of the harshness that comes out of a drugstore bottle.  She was tall and
slender, and both her poise and movement suggested that she was very fit.

Perhaps she wasn’t waiting for business after all, but for a friend or a lover.  On the other
hand, she was dressed in a tightly-belted leather coat, fish-nets and stilettos.  No hint of shirt
or dress showed at the neck of the coat; there might be nothing but underwear beneath the
soft leather.  Or nothing at all. I shifted slightly in my seat at the thought.  As I did so, the girl
lifted her head as if listening, then moved away from the brick wall with a swift grace that was
almost shocking.  Now she leant on the lamppost in a timeless pose.  Her left knee thrust out,
she curled one arm around the metal behind her.  Chin up; she looked down the street from
under her lashes.  I contemplated lighting a cigarette, but I didn’t want to move. I had the
uncanny feeling that she knew I was watching her.  

The sound of a car coming down the street dispelled the feeling, so I took the opportunity to
move to the other side of the window to get an earlier sight of it.  It was just an ordinary
family sedan.  It slowed down and rolled to a halt by the girl.  The driver stuck his head out of
the window and said something.  She unpeeled herself from the street lamp, bending cat-like
to reply. Whatever the guy had said, she apparently wasn’t interested.  With a shake of her
hair, she stood up, resuming her seductive pose. The driver appeared to hesitate for a
moment, and then he got out and locked the car.  The girl smiled at him.  

It wasn’t the whiteness of her teeth or the beautiful curves of her mouth that made her smile
so mesmerising.  It was some other quality altogether.  A quality that made my mouth open
and my cheeks burn; that rocked me back on my heels; that made me hate the thirty-
something redneck glued to the sidewalk in front of her.  

The girl took his arm and guided him around the corner into the darkness.  I returned to my
seat on weakened legs and lit a cigarette.  I’d forgotten whether to be glad or sorry that she
turned out to be a hooker after all.  I was trembling.  I don’t know for how long I sat there,
other than it was long enough to smoke three cigarettes, one after the other.

She reappeared so quickly I almost missed her.  She was alone.  She took car keys from her
pocket and unlocked the door of the sedan.  One hand on the door, she paused.  I held my
breath. Slowly, she raised her head and looked up to my window. Somehow she saw through
the darkness of the room.  She looked right into my eyes.  I still wasn’t breathing.  I felt that
neither was she. Her upturned face was perfect.  She dropped her gaze.  I exhaled. Then she
got into the car and drove away.


© Vivienne McCulloch


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