"Balenciaga, I love you!"

"Dios mío, you're drunk, Ambrose."

"Ahahaha!"

Ambrose stumbled about the sidewalk, and I was watching his feet and letting him lean on me as he wobbled on his five inch stilettos. "Gothic is...the best one," he sputtered, getting quieter now, "Judges know...gothic...drag...wins..."

His towering silver tiara nearly toppled off of his head as his head dropped to his chest, showing me he was falling asleep while incredibly still walking.

"Oh, Ambrose, stay awake. Despertar ahora!" I said loudly, shaking him desperately to rouse him as the majority of his weight fell on me and I nearly toppled over myself.

His pretty eyes fluttered open. "You always speak more Spanish when it's late at night," he whispered, slurring. "Was that because of your Daddy?"

"Please don't speak about my Daddy," I whispered to him.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered.

"Good god, Ambrose. Its okay. You're a very bad drunk," I sighed, stopping and taking a break. I leaned him against a telephone pole and he stayed there loyally.

"Very bad," he whispered into the pole, still looking deeply apologetic.

We were quiet for a moment, and I considered taking out a cigarette. But if I got any kind of ash on this white dress or worse, it burned, then I'd be out of luck because I could never get it repaired. I'd just have to wait until home. Maybe my Mama wasn't home yet. She didn't like me smoking, being a nurse and all.

"Sure is a quiet night for a Friday," I breathed, leaning against the other side of the pole. "Maybe it's later than we thought?" My thoughts went to my Mama, perhaps alone at home and worrying about me. My eyes traveled to the apartment buildings surrounding us. Only a few lights were on. What a strange neighborhood. Maybe I didn't recognize it in the darkness, but I didn't think I'd ever been in this neighborhood before.

As I stretched my arms and legs in preparation for practically carrying Ambrose again, not that he was very big at all being a skinny Puerto Rican, my eyes fell on the bright lights of a third floor apartment across the street. It caught my eye due to the pretty white lace curtains. They looked like they could be floor length. What I wouldn't give for that fabric. I'd make a dress out of that so fast, or maybe a veil.

As I planned this dream dress, it took me a minute to realize there was someone staring back at me in the window with the lace. I could see her clearly, if slightly shadowed due to the way the light was falling on her from the back. She stood there motionless, staring down at both Ambrose and I. Her expression didn't look judgmental, but it also didn't look gentle. As I stared back at her, she didn't waver. I was able to observe this stranger in a long look.

She had long pale blonde hair that seemed to curl near the bottom, and her face was wrinkled, but not badly. These lines seemed to even enhance her beauty, strangely, making her look elegant and wise. She wore a sort of old fashioned outfit, one I realized looked '60s based on my fashion education. But as I stared longer, my eyes squinted. Then they squinted more.

As this old lady stared at me, I swear I started to recognize her from somewhere. But from where? How? We'd never met, I knew that with extreme certainty. It was a very eerie feeling.

Ambrose's gloved hand clapped on my shoulder and my eyes darted to him as he startled me something fierce.

"I think...I'm going to be sick..." he blurted.

"Ay! Don't do that here!" I cried in surprise, "my dress! Your coat! Try to hold it in until we get to my place!"

"I'll try," he whimpered, looking at me like a kid who needed his mommy.

"Here, lean on me, bueno?" I asked, offering my right side.

"Bueno, Ruiz," he slurred, accepting my offer and leaning his entire weight on me again.

I looked back up at the window with the lace. The woman was still there, watching us. A creeped out feeling spread down my spine.

As we walked along, we rounded the corner of the block and like a beacon in the middle of a very heavy sea, there was a little 24 hour Jewish grocery store right there. My heart was so glad. I leaned Ambrose against another telephone pole and went inside to get him some cold water.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the florescent lights of the store fell upon me. Making my way towards the back to the freezer cases, I grabbed some snacks as well. Gripping the bags of chips and stuff in my other hand, I opened one of the freezer cases and grabbed a water, piling it against my other arm and ribs. I looked around the case, and then my eyes fell on something magical.

"Str-Strawberry milk?!" I cried, not caring who heard. "Why do they have strawberry milk?!"

Like a kid in a candy store, I piled three of the little strawberry milks against my arms and ribs and delightedly skipped the best I could to the front of the store in these seven inch heels. I was gorgeously happy. Just gorgeously. Strawberry milk, imagine. I hadn't had strawberry milk since I was a kid, and I loved it so much.

When I reached the counter, a boy about my age was standing there reading the New York Daily News. He looked up, putting his paper down. Then he stared at me. And stared some more.

"I'd like to buy these," I chirped, not caring about his long look because of the joy from the strawberry milks.

He looked down at the things I intended to purchase. He seemed to be thinking.

I read his nametag to address him. "Uh, hey, Charlie? I'm kind of in a hurry. My friend is outside."

He looked up at me again.

Then he said the weirdest thing.

"Are you George's friend?" he asked desperately, his eyes immediately turning into a mirror of his desperation.

"Perdóneme?" I asked, but then realized what I had said. I cleared my throat quickly. "Pardon?" I asked again.

"George. She's...well she loves these strawberry milks and she's kind of...well she's...she's like you?" he said, hesitating.

"Excuse me? She's Puerto Rican? Is that what you mean?" I asked, feeling a tiny flare of anger. Was this boy being racist to me?

"No, no, I don't mean that. Sorry. I mean she's...she's a..." he got quieter.

"A what?" I asked, getting extremely impatient.

"A...a drag queen...I think..." he whispered, embarrassed.

"What about it?" I asked, my voice clipping.

But then his face turned to one of such sadness it stopped me in my tracks. I relaxed and a change overcame me. What was going on here?

"I don't know if you know her, but...please, she needs some help. I don't know you, but...you like the strawberry milks...she likes the strawberry milks... I don't know what I'm asking, but please... Can you talk to her? You seem to have some stuff in common already. She needs help. Serious help. Please, I can't believe I'm saying this to you, I don't even know you, but I don't know what else to do," he said pitifully, and by the end he was near tears, his voice shaking. "I figure since you're both...drag queens...maybe...maybe she'll listen to you...I don't know, I'm sorry. Forget it." He was looking at the floor now, looking deeply ashamed.

He looked so pitiful, my heart went out to him. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I found my hands moving on their own to my purse on the counter. I brought out a ballpoint pen and an old receipt. I found myself scribbling my home phone number on the back of it, and handing this to the boy.

He looked so relieved the tears threatened to overflow from his eyes. His hands were visibly shaking as he rang up my purchases.

As he handed me my bags, I looked at him sincerely. "Call me tomorrow evening, I get off work at five," I told him as clearly as I could. "Tell me more about this 'George', okay?"

He nodded like a sad child. I waved to him as I left, and as I arranged Ambrose on my side and handed him the grocery bags to hold, I thought about what had just transpired. And I thought about the woman in the window.

And as Ambrose and I traveled on the train, I realized where I had seen the woman before. And I screamed right in the middle of the deserted train.

"Georgina Monroe..." I whispered to myself, my voice shaking similar to the way the boy's had. "Georgina...that was Georgina Monroe..."

Georgina Monroe. The best Marilyn Monroe drag impersonator New York City had ever seen in the 1960's. My #1 idol. The person I had looked up to since I was fourteen years old. The person whom I had admired so much I got into drag.

I just about fainted on top of a heart attack later on when my brain put two and two together, what that boy had been telling me in the grocery store.

"G-George...G-Georgina...G-" I sputtered like I was having a seizure in my bed. "George...he wants me to help...Georgina Monroe..."

And then I swear I blacked out.