A Chapter Peek from the soup kitchen romance

So- here is what followed.
A draft- a partial draft only- of Chapter One of what turned out to be Lunchtime at Mercy Kitchen: A Soup Kitchen Romance, a work in progress. LMK as I have nicknamed it has been sitting under the towel, in a great big bowl being LEFT ALONE for a while now, to let the yeast of time and space work on it. I will be picking it up again shortly to re-edit and shape it, hopefully with new eyes, now that it's been 'resting' a while. Here is a little taste:


Chapter 1
Ablutions
Rosalinda Renee Rabidoux paused in the midst of her getting-ready-for-work routine, to satisfy a need that had nothing to do with working. She padded across the thick, pale pink carpeting to her bedroom, stood on the small stool in her walk-in closet, and stretched to reach the top shelf for the clear Tupperware shoe box labeled “Fancy-Red” in her splashy curving Catholic school script. She opened the container, perched on the bed, and slipped the brand-new magenta pumps onto her perfectly pedicured feet. They were every bit as gorgeous as she had remembered. A purchase from one of her bus-shopping adventures in the city with Cheryl, they had been sitting in her closet like royalty-in-hiding, awaiting the proper festivities to make an entrance and to receive the adulation of the masses. Or that’s how they seemed to her.
The wondrous shade of the textured silk, a perfect balance between red and purple, the perfectly sewn swirls of tiny sequins in rose and red and silver, the heart-stopping four-inch heels. She even loved the elegant label and red satin lining concealed beneath her foot. The pumps perfectly fulfilled all her personal wardrobe requirements. Just slipping them on, she felt crowned, delicious, more alive.
She sashayed around her room, preening in the morning sunlight before a full-length oval mirror stand. A small woman who was soft and round in all the woman places, she was groomed to perfection, her hair, a fiery corona of spirals scarcely contained within a glittery clasp, her blue eyes accentuated with bold lining and subtle shading in lavender and plum. She wore a silky kimono covered with soft flowers as she held herself and moved with the music from the radio, imagining exactly how she wanted it to be when Ernie pulled her in close and danced her around the floor in these very shoes.
There was a dance coming up this fall, a full, fancy dress shindig, the Fall Foliage Festival Ball. And what Rosalinda had been daydreaming into life for a while now, had been sashaying around that dance floor with the newest object of her hopes and prayers, Ernie Crawford, the former construction worker who took care of buildings and people at her church, Our Lady of Mercy. Ernie attended to the old building like it was his own home, fixing and fussing over it, keeping everything in the church purring. He also ran Mercy Kitchen, the parish’s twice-weekly lunch program for the needy, with a steady hand.
Dancing in the morning sunlight, in her kimono and her fancy shoes, she could see, right there in her oval mirror, she and Ernie, wrapped together, every move of one mirroring the other, moving to the music. She could feel the warmth and excitement of the moment, see her radiant face, snuggled into Ernie’s chest, beaming back at her from the mirror.
Just then, in mid fantasy, she froze. She realized that she had no idea if Ernie could dance. In fact, had never seen him take to the dance floor at any event she could remember. She caught herself as a flicker of anxiety began to rear itself, then stopped it dead in its tracks. She refused to entertain any thoughts of discouragement. She had another half hour before she had to finish dressing, time for another French Vanilla iced coffee and some time to think out her next moves. She carefully returned the shoes to their box in the closet to await further instructions. Then she settled in at her counter, with coffee and pen, and and sat up a little taller, as she pictured Ernie looking positively edible in his going-to-the-ball clothes. Whether or not she’d ever laid eyes on the man’s dance moves, she had a ripple of womanly intuition that once Ernie slid his hand around her waist and pulled her toward him, the dancing would take care of itself.
From: Lunchtime at Mercy Kitchen: A Soup Kitchen Romance copyright 2009