Marty liked keeping them guessing: wearing clothes fit for a man or woman; a body that was slender, but muscular; crossed legs demurely at ankles or (sometimes) at a manly 90 degree angle; gray hair cropped cleanly.
Marty’s voice was gravelly, the product of too many years smoking cigarillos. That could also be the reason for the creases scored deeply into Marty’s face. Years of wind, sun, and hard living added to the aged, but ageless, face looking back from the mirror across the bar.
Marty seldom left with another person. When someone had the balls to guess – or ask – on which side of the fence Marty rode the answer was short, sweet, to the point, and no-nonsense: “I’m an enigma. Got the nards to find out?â€
That generally put an end to the conversation. Marty would raise a finger with nonchalance to the server and a beer would appear. All was right in the world Marty traveled.
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Have you ever walked into a room – a bar, the train station, your pick – and wondered “is that a man or woman?” Did you then decide it was nonaya? (That is, none of your business.) Yeah, me, too. Here’s to the Martys in the world – godspeed and safe journey. I love your right to be an enigma.
Trifecta tossed down yet another challenge. The above is my answer. Where is yours?
