West 47th by Gerald A Browne

suddenly clear and Billy went ahead and left and left and left around the block and pulled over for Mitch.
    Maddie felt the air disturbed by his climbing in. She inhaled the distinctive scent of him and leaned toward its source with her face up to receive his lips briefly on her cheek.
    â€œYou weren’t early,” she accused.
    â€œWould have been but I needed to freshen up.”
    â€œYou didn’t reshave.”
    â€œMaybe later.”
    â€œMaybe,” she arched.
    â€œLook at you! Thought you said no makeup.”
    â€œChanged my mind.” She removed her dark glasses to expose her eyes.
    Mitch knew how long it had taken her to get them so right. Both eyes equally and perfectly outlined and shadowed, lashes thickened.
    Care had also been taken in what she’d decided to wear. Mitch imagined her standing before their bedroom mirror imagining how she looked. Her dress was an Isaac Mizrahi she’d recently bought at Bergdorf and shown to him on a hanger, telling him what it was. Large white polka dots on navy blue ground. The bodice of silk crepe de chine, the short, ample skirt of filmy silk chiffon. At the time he’d said he liked it with just adequate heart. Now he set that straight, told her enthusiastically, “You look smashing!”
    â€œThink so?” She soaked that up and hoped for another helping and he didn’t disappoint, told her: “Being with you tonight is going to be dangerous.”
    Instead of thank you she paused and extended her lips for him to bring his to. She was feeling extremely feminine. Her arms like wings, her thighs full of blossoms. She re-crossed her legs and the chiffon obediently floated and lightly settled upon and around her. “Navy is a helpful color for me, don’t you think, for my hair and all?”
    Mitch thought so, said so. Her heavy healthy hair was naturally blonde, naturally variegated. Plenty of shine but no brass. She had it styled fairly short and in such a simple way it practically disciplined itself, required only a vigorous swish or two and a combing with her fingers here and there to look right.
    Billy brought the Lexus to the curb.
    Mitch got out, extended his hand back in to Maddie.
    She expected it, got it, used it as she aimed her left foot and found the sidewalk, placed her weight on that foot, kept her head down and then she too was out and up.
    Stumble, as always, was her enemy. At such times as this her audacity challenged it. So far so good. She paused momentarily to gather her poise, glanced off as though to survey East 55th, then returned her attention to the direction that her highly honed senses told her was the entrance to the restaurant.
    Mitch grasped her elbow firmly, started her.
    She didn’t shuffle or feel ahead with her feet. Took assured paces of a natural length, five to the held-open entrance door and twenty from it to where there were six steps up that she managed without so much as a toe bumping a riser. Mitch halted her while he dealt with the maître d’.
    Mitch and Maddie had settled on this system years ago, his using her forearm like a tiller. By now they’d pretty much perfected it. She knew what each pressure of his hand meant, which signified to go left, which to right and to what degree each of those directions. Those for stop and start were easiest. Simply a restraining or slight forward shove. A little downward tug told her she’d reached the point where she could confidently sit. There were refinements, little squeezes of a certain number conveyed certain impending things. Stairs, for example.
    Of course, their system wasn’t infallible. Old enemy stumble often had its way and there’d been numerous collisions. One day, when attempting lunch at La Goulue, Maddie had misinterpreted a signal as the sit signal and taken an inelegant flop.
    This night, however, no mishaps. She managed the zigzag course of tables and chairs and waiters without even a brush, and