“No need. My fault.” It was. I could not stand like a block of stone on such a busy street. Driving my thoughts onto safer ground, I straightened my lovely new, old dress and continued.
I couldn't change, not a stitch, of the dull uniform I must wear whenever I was in service, which was every minute save two afternoons a week. On those days, I craved some of the style I longed to create, to plume myself in at least a few of the feathers forever worn by the grand birds of this community. I felt quite fashionable, quite pretty, as I headed north on Bellevue then down Memorial Boulevard to Thames Street—in my head I said it as Pearl, as the chosen, said it, with the English pronunciation—“temes”—running along the waterfront, lined on the other side by shop after shop.
Though paid each week,
