I had never seen a Judge before. In my mind he would wear a flowing black robe and hold a gavel. Instead, he wears a suit and a troubled look. We (the Judge, me and my new young attorney are waiting for the “Attorney for Men.” AFM. She is late.
Us and the entire courtroom (who are these people in the bleachers?) can hear the “Attorney for Men” coming down the hall. How? The tap-tap-tap on the marble courtroom floor is escalating like a fast-moving Gazelle being chased by a Cheetah. It is the clatter that only stiletto heels can make.
Everyone has turned towards the huge double door entry to the courtroom. I hold my breath. I feel as if I am watching a Super Bowl TV commercial-in slow motion. Tan long legs, strapped in six-inch heels appear first in the doorway. Followed by a thigh peeking through a slit in a cream color pencil skirt. A sheer long sleeved blouse, teenage long hair bounces behind her like it had never seen a bad hair day and dares you to think it had.
I look at the Judge. Who is looking at her. I look at the people in the bleachers. Who are also looking at her. I look at my attorney. Out of the blue her hair is now in tight Heidi braids. A white peasant top with puffy sleeves. A dirndl skirt with suspenders, bare feet, and, I swear she is holding a can of milk next to the cow behind her.
Well, that’s it. I’m dead.