Walking along Newbury Street, I can hear the bellowing of a woman before I see her. Figuring she is just another crazy, possibly-homeless person, I keep my head down, knowing the general predilections of the crazy to gravitate towards me. The crowd parts and there she is, unmistakably confronting me head-on; oversize sunglasses hide her eyes and a mane of wild, unruly curls straggles behind her. She is staring directly at me.
“I UNDERSTAND YOUR HUSBAND IS IN TOWN” she booms in a grand, haughty, upper-crust accent. “PLEASE MAKE A NOTE!”
And then she is gone, taking with her some insanely regal bearing, and passing by with the crowd. What to make of her cryptic message, I haven’t a clue. My husband is actually not in town, nor is he even my husband yet, but being that I was en route to secure our wedding hotel, I will consider it a good omen. (As I do the appearance of this paper swan in Anthropologie.)
