As I tooled down Madison on my way to the bank, a pretty woman of a certain age swung out of J Crew getting in step beside me. I noticed her for two reasons…one, she looked so chic, and the other…because she was whistling like a tea kettle.
“You sound happy,” I said, smiling at her.
“I so am,” she answered in what sounded like an Island accent.
“You don’t hear people whistling very often, at least I don’t,” I said, admiring her pale pink sleeveless button-down with the collar flipped up…the cocoa shade of her skin doing it justice.
“Where I come from, we all whistle.”
“And where would that be?”
“I hear it’s quite beautiful there.”
“It is…like an ocean’s dream.” That remark made me wonder if she wrote.
“My father taught me to whistle when I was very tiny…he said it was relearning an instrument God had already given me.”
“That’s quite lovely,” I said, picturing a brown skinned man with a little girl beaming at his side. “The only time people whistle around here is for taxis…doormen mostly.”
“And that is very rude,” she said, shaking her head.” All you need to do is stand still and one will stop.”
“I’m afraid your average doorman isn’t as attractive as you, so he needs to work a little harder.”
“Then he should just raise his arm…like this.”
Hers elegantly shot up causing two cabs to stop at once.
“See,” she said, whistling her happy tune, getting into the one nearest to where we stood.