Herald Square is my destination. I am to meet a woman named ‘Miss Aliquot’ at Sixth Avenue and 33rd Street. I have no idea how she will find me, but then my reflection comes to mind.
How many prepubescent looking blonds will be standing there at 10:00 a.m. with a black leather bag over their shoulders?
I arrive and of course must wait. I always seem to be waiting... in my counselor’s reception area, in the doctor’s changing room, even in the back room of the beauty salon.
Finally, after twenty minutes, a woman approaches. From a near distance, she smiles and offers a modest hand signal. I nod.
“You must be Renee,” an arm reaches, fingers smooth over my newly styled locks.
It is a matronly gesture, a mother adoringly grooming her child. As I begin to speak her hand glides to my cheek a
