Franklin and I were perched on a landing of the stairs and watched as four tall lanky men in drag descended. The first and third were trying to comfort the second who was crying uncontrolably. He lamented that he had lost his purse and it held the only key to the apartment.
"We'll just have to break a window," offered the first. At this his wails became louder and he clutched a hanky to his running mascara. At that point, my heart went out to them. They were out for an evening on the town, at a once a year gig, and the key to home had been lost. They would be caught out in the cold, in nothing but their fishnets and their stilleto heels, calling a cab, knowing that when they arrived home there was still the grief of breaking into their own home, in order to get in, to be faced.
They were in a fix, and if I could have thought of something I could have done, I'd have done it.
While this transpired, the fourth had hurried back up the stairs. He returned with the missing purse in hand and they all rejoiced, hugged, and held hands as they descended the stairs and and hurried off into the night.
It was a sight to see.