It was 3am, and she was wearing a skirt, heels and a silk blouse. In most places, this would mark her as a whore, woman of the evening, slut, whatever you want to call them. This however was in Manhattan, and in this part of the city, prositutes were only available by phone call. He looked at her across the street, standing outside the bar, smoking a cigarette. Bars could be overstimulating, he knew, and he often came outside to have a solitary moment when he was out with his friends.

Her skirt was black, the silk top a soft warm pastel green. Nice, even from 30 yards away. He wondered where she worked. Maybe Park Plaza, for some midtown law firm. Hair cut short, a flattering cut. Not like the Jersey girls she was probably with, with their big hair, makeup and no doubt one of them had on acid-washed denim, even now, past 2001. He laughed at that thought- such a quick fad that was, the shockingly dark blue denim thrown in a washer with acid to get that instantly distressed look. Somehow it had never left the north shores of Jersey. Were these girls, now women, doomed to live in the late 80's forever? A stray thought crossed his mind of a 70 year old woman from Atlantic City with big teased hair, a cigarette dangling, and skin tight acid washed denim.

It was important to dress nicely here, he knew, having moved here from Indiana a few months ago. 'Land of the Mullet Haircut' is what his city friends called it, and you know, they were probably right. What would have constitued being dressed up in Peoria was decidely frumpy here. Fashion moved quickly, and could be fickle, but it was important.

More than just for fitting in, the lack of it served to alienate you from those who would be your peers, shunned you at a bar, no chance for a date. It forced you to be dressed nicely all the time, and frankly, he thought, we all look better for it. He looked at the young woman across the street, putting out her cigarette on the sidewalk, an expensive pump doing the grinding. He tried to imagine her in something less classy or matronly, and couldn't. She was meant to be here, dressed in wool and silk. She fit the outfit so well, her closet was probably quite devoid of ugly things.

If she moved away from the city, had a family, she'd still be the person at the christmas party who somehow belonged in that unusual evening gown, and where would she have found it? The local suburban mall don't sell those, but someone said they saw one in a fashion magazine this month. She won't fit in anywhere else, but that's ok, he knew. She'd be the glamourous one in a crowd, kind of the way in movies they highlight the star in a crowd of people, with subtle makeup and nice clothes, giving the surrounding extras drab outfits and flat makeup.

He nodded his head in silent salute, invisible to her, as she walked back into the bar, to laugh and hoist drinks with the big haired denim wearing friends of hers.