Page 3 of Bronson

But even then, as I lie in bed at night, awake on the sagging mattress of my twin frame, my mind goes to those little red boxes. That word so powerful, it’s written in gold: Bachman’s.

I love my pretty things. But I want that ring.

I know what I do is messed up.

I’m messed up.

I’m trying to get better.

But I’m not.

It’s getting harder to cover up my little habit. When my co-workers compliment me, or ask where I’ve gotten such a great piece on our salary, I tell them it’s a knockoff I’ve purchased from Canal Street. Or that my rich big sister, the one they’ve never met—and who doesn’t exist—has given me another gift.

So generous of her. She’s such a doll.

None of my conquests compare to what sits in the window of that jewelry store.

The ring.

Just thinking about that ring sends the nervous butterflies to flight in my tummy. The ones I get just before I make my move.

A blue diamond.

The rarest in the color family of diamonds. And at three carats, well, let’s just say the price on the tag is a number so big I have a hard time gathering up the guts it would take to steal it.

But I have to have it.

I can’t help but feel she’ll one day be mine.

Every day I walk by it. Every day, with my bag of stale buns in one hand, coffee in the other, I shuffle past it, my eyes wide as they take in its beauty. Afraid I’ve been caught staring, I always take a nervous sip from my cheap black coffee.

When I walk by Bachman’s, picturing myself inside, purchasing a necklace or perhaps a simple bracelet, my ugly work shoes and cheap brew melt away.

In my imagination I become her.

Pretty Woman.

Today is no different.

After exchanging words with my nasty boss, I head out to the bakery to get yesterday’s goodies for my friends. Now, a smile stretches on my face just thinking of the smile on theirs when I get the treats back home to them.

A crisp, early fall breeze caresses my cheeks, tangling my short dark hair that for some crazy reason, I’ve chosen to let hang loose around my face this morning.

Fall in New York is my favorite time of year.

The leaves are just beginning to change. Red and gold surrounds me. I lift my hand, attempting to gather a falling, swirling leaf. It lands in my opened palm.

Lucky catch.

Pinching the stem between my fingers, I twirl the leaf, enjoying the beauty of its colors. I release it and it flutters to the ground to join the others. Inhaling deeply, I glide over the sidewalk, my work shoes feeling almost like sandals.

The crisp air, the autumn beauty, it makes a fullness well in my heart… On the days Ms. Jones wakes up and her knees don’t ache, she smiles and says, Must have woken up on the right side of the bed. That’s how I feel today.

Though the trees are beautiful, our street is not. Trash blows in the wind. Dirty kids with no coats tug on mismatched shoes as they run to catch the bus. A couple of mangy cats fight over a discarded fishbone—something you’ve probably only seen in cartoons.

I turn the corner, walk a few more blocks, and I’m in another world.

Women with slicked-back hair, their oversized sunglasses covering half of their perfectly done faces, talk loudly into their cell phones. Their expressions say, Look at me, I’m gorgeous and I’m important. The men, their suits costing more than my entire tuition had, brush past me with their muscled shoulders.