Boston in Heels

At Cafe Vittoria, H and I have split the tiramisu and paid the bill. I stand up and wait in line for the restroom -- A woman opens the door and looks absolutely stricken. I can't figure out what she's asking me, and she repeats herself. She wants me to fasten the hook on her teeny, tiny sequined miniskirt. It takes a few tries and we're in an incredibly awkward position -- she's standing with her back to me and I'm bent over, with my fingers on the waistline of her skirt. I finally fit the hook to the eye and she is grateful ("Thanks so much sweetie!"). H sees this scene unfold and is trying to hide a smile.

We walk out of the cafe, past the accordion players and firefighters sitting out on the sidewalk in lawn chairs. H leads the way and takes me on a walk through the North End and down Commercial Street, threading the way along the wharves, across gravel paths, wooden docks, and grass, past the crowds spilling out of waterfront bars, and below the vine-lined arches on the Greenway. I'm wearing heels -- tall heels, three inch heels, black patent leather heels -- but I don't mind.