Partners In Fiction (How We Met)

Back then, I was a day trader.
At night, I drove a cab. On a wet November night,
there she stood on the corner of 58th and Park.
With a wave of her hand she brought me to a halt,
and hurriedly I reversed, that the cabbie behind me,
not steal my fare.

She was tall and blond as a broom, and entered the cab
with her nose in the air. "Where to?" said I.
Said she, "118th and Third Avenue, La Marketa."
Anyone familiar with East Harlem, knows that La Marketa,
is a squalid market under the trestles of the trains
running from Grand Central Station to the suburbs.

Why would a dame like this be headed for Spanish Harlem?
Maybe drugs. Through the mirror, I saw her cross her legs,
The slit in her gown exposed a thunderous thigh,
beyond which no gentleman should wanna look further.
A long brimmed hat, slightly slanted, sat ruffed on her head.
"You're dripping wet," says I.
"I beg your pardon," says she.


To be continued