“Lisa,” I said, introducing myself. Jesse winced. Apparently he didn’t think the name fitted me. Either that or maybe he’d pricked himself on a thorn. “Is that really a dress you designed yourself?”
“It is.” Rosa had an English accent. “But I think I might add a rose brooch,” she smiled at Jesse. “Right here.” She held it on the left shoulder on the edge of the neckline and turned to me. “What do you think? Never hurts to add on a little bonus for the customer.”
Imagine that! In New York less than a month and I was being asked by a real live designer for an opinion on the placement of a brooch on a designer dress! I was so impressed with myself, I could hardly get a word out. And I was so afraid of saying something stupid that I didn’t dare express my true opinion. (I would have placed the rose on the waistline.) I wimped out. “I think you’re the designer,” I said.
“Me,” said Jesse, “I’d add the rose, yes. But I’d make it kind of sparkly. Make it detachable, and they can put it wherever they like. Folks like customizing things.” (Wish I’d said that, I thought.)
“Jesse,” said Rosa, “your genius is wasted on this corner.” She paid for her rose and went on down into the station. I paid for my six and went on to the newsstand. Jesse continued to hawk his wares.
The earth whirled around twice, dressed better than any of us, and it was Monday again.
Chapter 3.
At that point in time, I was earning my living as a scientist, a research scientist. It sounds impressive, prestigious, important. There are any number of fine adjectives you can attach to it. But my heart wasn’t in it. I resented having to pass up affordable theater tickets because something in the lab had to be attended to in the evening. (Sometimes I even scheduled experiments around other activities). I hated the jargon. I hated the atmosphere of competition and criticism. I hated giving lectures. But
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