Dear lady in the purple shirt, black pants and terrible shoes on the N
I could do wonders for you. I spotted you sitting cross legged, looking like a doting and ancient school-marm, with quasi-clogs and Talbot’s brand clothes spiraling over your secretively seductive body the way ivy clings to the brick walls of venerable institutions.
You and I could travel to the city’s finest couture retailers, spas, and salons where I would lavish you with money and attention and—not unlike a teenage geek-to-sheik movies of the 80s—transform you into a sensual minx of international acclaim. I would then teach you how to behave. A certain charm school of my making where I would instruct you on the benefits of proper social flirtation, sexual technique and apposite business conduct.
You would then return to your spotted row house in Brighton Beach (or wherever you call home) and inform your parents that your past life and the mawkish level of confidence it provided, is no longer for you. You will tell them that you’ve met someone who has propelled you to skip the steps of the requisite social climbing 1st generation immigrants must endure.
You, my love, could be so choice.
Someone who could neither afford to, or have the energy to perform the above mentioned transformation.