Jennifer Place, Part One
Anne stepped off the bus.
“This shouldn’t have happened, but it did.”
A violet valise in both of her hands, one for her clothes and the other for whatever, she stood now at the steps of a place that wasn’t home. A place that wasn’t yet home but could be, she hoped. For now, though, it was simply a place. For many women, it was the place. The place to be. The place to be free. The place for muttering “C’est la vie.”
“Jennifer Place,” Anne said as she read the Raygun Gothic sign aloud.
“My ears are burning,” she heard a woman say behind her.
There’s no way to know if a voice belongs to a woman, but sometimes you do. And this time, Anne did.
“Excuse me?” Anne said, turning around.
The other woman was beautiful. She had clothes and hair.
“You said my name,” the other woman said, brushing her Veronica Lake bang to the side. “Jennifer Place. That’s me.”
“But I thought it was the name of this building…” Anne was confused. “Do you also own this apartment complex?”
“No,” said Jennifer. “I just live here. I’m Jennifer.”
“Can I live here, too?” Anne asked the raven-haired stranger.
“That’s not up to me. But sure.”
“Oh, good,” Anne sighed, her freckles sizzling red. Her hair was red, too. You can see her now. “I’m Anne, by the way. Anne Instagram.”
Anne extended her hand to shake Jennifer’s.
“Jennifer Place,” the other woman repeated, sliding her bang back into its original sideswept position. She extended her hand to meet Anne’s but, instead of shaking it up and down as the custom of some would dictate, she stroked her middle finger down the center of Anne’s palm.
Anne’s eyes widened.
“Murderer,” she gasped.
“Jennifer,” Jennifer repeated.
“No,” Anne clarified. “I mean ‘Murderer.’ The game ‘Murderer.’ We used to play it when I was a child. We all did… I thought…”
“Well, I don’t play games,” said Jennifer, “I win them.” She parted her bang down the middle of her forehead and tucked it behind her two ears. “I’m going home now. I live there.” Jennifer pointed at Jennifer Place the building, not the woman. “It’s almost pool time. I’ll see you at the pool?”
“The pool…” said Anne. “Yes. The pool. Till pool.”
Anne felt confused. Optimistic but confused. The world beyond her marriage was full of surprises, it seemed. Sometimes a woman will sound like a woman, but sometimes her name is a building’s name, too. And although she was aware that Jennifer Place had a pool, as the ad in Magazine had told her as much, said ad had not detailed anything further. The hours. The rituals. If you could drink from it and when. But Anne would learn to adapt, as all divorcées must. She’d find her place among the women of this place… Jennifer Place.