Her sunglasses, Faye told me before
she introduced herself, were Jimmy Choos,
which sounded snazzy enough, but also

sported gold bejeweled upper corners,
which drew my eyes to hers. We sat in
adjoining chairs behind matching counters

across from two optical technicians
adjusting each of our specs, Faye outlining
a shopping plan to find me a winter

coat because, girl, it’s got cold all of
a sudden, me agreeing that nighttime
temps have dropped, it being the first

of November. Winter’s comin’, Faye
said, as a round-faced young man worked
on her shades, and an optical genius named

Eddie fiddled with mine, Faye chatting about
her favorite black boots as if we compared
fashion notes all the time. Finished, the tech

gently placed Faye’s glasses on her nose,
and she turned in my direction, my pupils
riveted to her sparkling smile over which

her luminous Jimmy Choos dazzled. I’ve
never developed much of a personal style
or fashion sense, much less tried to carry off

any manner of bling, but I admire others
who wear the bright, the shiny, the sparkle
with the kind of aplomb that comes from

knowing they look good. You are stylin’,
I told Faye, who shot me a brilliant grin
and an Mmm hmmm, laughing as if

we’d known each other for years.
You’ve made my day, she said.
Ditto, I told her.

And thanking the men who’d tweaked
our spectacles, we rose in tandem,
Faye reaching for my hand, transferring

a bit of her self-assurance into my palm
with a squeeze before she floated off into
the bright midday of a brand new month.