Blame it on global
warming I guess. I don't remember it ever being so windy, so often, so
persistently. Not gusts but more like a constant near-gale that lasts
for hours. It's a beautiful, warm, sunny spring day, a Tuesday, noon,
and everyone is out walking but the wind is fierce, whistling through
doors and blowing over sandwich boards on the sidewalks.
I'm in the office building where I'm currently on contract, but I've
come downstairs for a cell phone call -- for privacy and because the
signal is lousy inside the walls ten stories up. I'm down by the large
picture window that faces obliquely onto busy Yonge Street North, away
from the revolving doors, staring at the windblown people walking by,
and talking with my agent. The older people outside are struggling,
their oversized clothes working against them like sails. People fussed
about their hair are holding on to it tightly, especially a guy who
looks like he wears a hairpiece. But it's so lovely outside that almost
everyone is smiling, or maybe they're squinting against the bright sun
and wind, it's hard to say.
Two uniformed schoolgirls walk North, probably on lunch break, or out
for a smoke or to use their cell phones, now banned on school grounds.
They have that look that says they know they're being looked at, and
are trying to be nonchalant about it. Their hair, long and straight, is
blown almost horizontal by the wind, streaming out behind them. They
are chatting and laughing, and I can't take my eyes off them. They both
wear their skirts high, flashing a lot of leg in that exhibitionist way
that has fueled generations of fantasies. The blonde, the taller of the
two, has shortened hers considerably more than the dark-haired girl.
The wind picks up even more and both girls' skirts blow up, like
something out of a movie. My eyes, and those of others, I sense, look
quickly at the ground beneath them, looking for the sidewalk subway
grate, the hidden camera, but there is none -- this is purely the wind's mischief. Both
girls instinctively move to smooth them back down, and the dark-haired
girl, her hands free thanks to her backpack, gives us only a brief
flash of pale pink underwear.
But the blonde, carrying an armload of books cradled in front of her,
hesitates, and then, with a quick look of pure delight, moves her hands
back up to where they were. Her skirt rises almost vertically and stays
there, as if drawn by reverse gravity, flapping lightly as the wind
whips around its defiant owner. She is wearing white string bikini
panties (surely not part of the uniform?,
I think), a mere wisp of material, and it is as if time stops. People
all around whirl and stare. A couple of cars honk. The girl's companion
looks at her friend, astonished, and her hands jump up to cover her
mouth. They both laugh, facing each other now, the dark-haired girl
with embarrassment, the blond with unabashed pleasure.
Now, freed again, the dark-haired girl's skirt flips up as well, and
though she moves to smooth it down again, her friend's stare freezes
her, dares her to do nothing, to show off, to be the centre of
attention.
I've stopped listening to my agent, and I'm wondering how long the wind
can keep the two skirts so neatly plastered up against the girls'
blouses, revealing panties so smooth and sculpted I would swear I can
see every bone, every hollow on the two long-legged young bodies.
There is a half-foot of midriff visible, too, displaying wondrous,
breathtaking, intoxicating curves, angles and shadows. I feel guilty
staring -- they're so young -- but I can't stop. A group of guys on the
far
side of Yonge Street have stopped walking and are now standing,
clapping and cheering the spectacle. The blonde bows in their direction
in acknowledgement of the applause.
And then, to my disbelief, the dark-haired girl, not taking her eyes
off her friend's face for a moment, raises her arms over her head and smiles
with sudden exuberant joy, and then whirls around, again and again and
again. I gasp, my gaze going back and forth from her face to her body
as she spins. As she completes her
figure skater's move, the wind calms, briefly, and the girls embrace,
convulsed in laughter.
They start walking again, and their skirts keep flapping up. My stare
follows them until they pass out of range of the window, and I
realize I have been holding my breath, and have no idea what my agent
has been saying. Caught between the messages of my genes and those
inculcated by my culture, I'm not sure how to feel.
Photo: Follow Me, by QueenofNight
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MADE IN CANADA
trust your
instincts 
