Weblog entry:
- These Chicago women
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The day is cool and cold, but these women, these Chicago women, laze with Coronas in hand. We laugh long into the first signs of rain, their easy laughter sloughing off the drops above.
We move inside, still smiling.
Then these women, these Chicago women, move silently about the kitchen, building an evening meal and a home with little but a sideways glance, more laughter. Smells of charcoal and olive oil pass through the kitchen and down the hallway, winding through our tales and tequila.
The night is fine.
And in the end, we leave: we—these women, these Chicago women, and I—strike out beneath the streetlights and iron-wrought tracks. The city crosses us as we cross it, and we step through the sidewalks and side streets onto the dark, tree-bordered beach. And with our back to the red wing of the lighthouse, we look over the city: the lights flare, the cars rush angrily by, and the water stays at our backs.
And these women, these Chicago women, smile long into the night.
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