Page 8 - My FlipBook

It’s all percussion. Drums and cymbals.
The rattle of the elevated train across the street. The
screech of its brakes as it jolts to a stop at Division.
And the voices of drenched bridesmaids passing on the
sidewalk outside may as well be the woodwinds.
So far, I’ve counted six maids in varying shades of pink—
carnation, salmon, tickle-me-pink, cotton candy . . . all the
standards. They’re rushing by in bare feet. High-heeled san-
dals dangle from their fingers, and tuxedo jackets, with pink
rose boutonnieres pinned to lapels, are tented over their heads.
They’re all confident, even in the midst of the downpour.
Then again, if they’re bridesmaids, they obviously have
friends. Tonight especially: they’re the elite, the chosen ones at
the head table, elevated above the other wedding guests. Except
maybe that one there.
I fix my gaze on one girl who’s hanging back a little. No
groomsman cups her under the elbow to guide her around pud-
dles. She’s making her own way.
She’s the only one not having an absolute ball in the rain,
seeming in deep contemplation, as if she doesn’t get the punch
line of a joke everyone else thinks is hilarious. Maybe she’s the
obligatory cousin in the lineup. I recognize the way she’s lin-
gering just a step or two behind, being present without engag-
ing. Doing so is an art form, and I would know. I feel like the
obligatory “cousin” pretty much everywhere I go.
But if I tune out the whispers behind me, if I lift the Sophias
out of the equation, I’m riding out this storm in my happy place.
This is one of the oldest buildings in Wicker Park, the
Chicago neighborhood where I live. As a whole, this place is
called the Factory: art galleries and shops, including the café,
on the first floor; studio space on the second; and, on the third,

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