Green hair

There's a decidedly unfeminine woman who recently walks her recently acquired small black dog on my old street, about whom I fantasize, dreaming about what might change in her that would make her what I grew up thinking of as a woman. Her hair is so flaxen dry it looks light green, like unwatered grass. Sometimes she has her preteen daughter with her, whom I worry about, in that way of becoming a woman as daughter of this woman. And yet she's pretty, this mother, this dog walker; I once was buying wine around the corner and she was short a dollar ahead of me at the counter and I gave Cindy, the quirky ex-nurse managing the old wine shop, the dollar, and the green-haired woman quavered with gratitude and told me her name was Jenny and she would repay me. Jenny, a tricky name for the woman about whom I now wanted to fantasize, despite her wan skin, her unimaginative glance, her slumped bony shoulders. And now she has a small black dog who drags her along the sidewalk and mocks her style of walking, and otherwise dismisses her as a boring mistress with bony thighs, boring in a cotton-shirt, bony-shorts kind of way. That's it: she needs to be someone's mistress, not a slave to a silly dog, not a wimpy mother, but a blond, glistening mistress, sweating and salivating and yearning and swaying, please, please, before it's too late.