Sorry, I know this beginning is really, really short and I apologize. I'm on vacation in Italy with my parents for their anniversary/my birthday trip and I had this idea while climbing a mountain and I just had to write it. (That's how I know my daddy loves me – he spent ten Euros to get me a pen and paper so I could jot down my ideas when we got to the top. They RIP YOU OFF here just because they can!)

So yeah, Internet is slightly complicated here and it's slow and costs a lot of money, so I'll be back on Friday and I'll update when I can.

I'm strutting down Fifth Avenue with my head held high. My sunglasses are perched "just so" on my head, but they fall for what must be the hundredth time and cover my eyes. My head is simply not flat enough for this to work. I give up the fight even though it's considered "fashionable" to use sunglasses as a makeshift headband. Looking chic may be easy for some people – Olivia often comments, with a tinge of envy creeping into her voice, that I make it look effortless – but in reality, for me, it's a constant struggle.

I tuck a strand of my long blonde hair behind my ear. It takes me an hour to flat iron it every morning. I don't understand how looking perfect comes so easily to some people, like my mother, when I have to work so hard at it.

I readjust my Valentino handbag on my shoulder and mutter, "See, Mom. I told you I could do it."

But I haven't. Not really. This is her world, not mine, and it always has been. Being perfect is second nature to her, while it's a conscious, strenuous effort for me, something I have to be aware of every single second of every single day so people don't see past the façade that is Alex Cabot. My mother always wanted me to grow up and be a successful, prestigious lawyer. In that, at least, I've succeeded, but not in the way she wanted.

I feel my cell phone vibrating. I take it out of my purse and press it t my ear. "Cabot."

"Alexandra, are you on your way?"

Shit, I'm not. It's our tradition (read: torture) for my parents and I to get together for dinner every Saturday night. I've been so busy this week that I totally forgot.

I briefly wonder what my mother would do if I just said, "Sorry, Mom. I can't make it tonight. Go find someone else to entertain (read: bore) for three hours."

I reject this idea as quickly as it arrives and instead do what she expects of me. Raising my hand to hail a cab, I say, "Yes, Mother. I'm on my way.'

* * *

I remember being seven years old and going shopping with my mother on the Upper East Side. I noticed a homeless man sitting on the curb. His clothes were ragged, his face unshaven, his hair scraggly. But he was playing the flute and boy, could he play! I was so enraptured that I let go of my mother's hand and wandered over to him. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I pulled a dollar bill out of my coat and dropped it in him music case, using up the money I'd gotten as a reward for being good that weekend, money I'd been looking forward to spending on sour Skittles.

I stood there, closed my eyes, and let the music transport me to a faraway land – to India or Arabia. I'd never been to either of those places but I'd read about them in stories, and they seemed magical.

But then I felt a tug on my arm and was transported back to reality. My mother yanked my wrist and dragged me away. "Don't you ever run away from me again!" she hissed in my ear. "And don't go near those filthy beggars. They'll rob you, Alexandra – or worse." She shuddered and crossed herself like the good Catholic she was.

Stepping out of my taxi, I notice a homeless man shivering on the steps. He's staring at the ground, not daring to make eye contact with someone like me, so far above him in every way.

I think of my mother and deliberately pull a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket and press it into his hand. "Here," I tell him. "It's cold out here. Go buy yourself a nice hot meal tonight."

I wait for his smile and give him one in return. I'm sure my own looks as awkward as his does, as if it's a muscle neither of us has used in a long time.

"Thank you, ma'am," he whispers, no doubt wondering why someone like me, who has it all, would be so kind to someone like him, who has nothing. Why I don't fear him like most so-called "respectable" people.

But as I turn to hurry off, so as not to be late for dinner with my mother, I think maybe we're not so different, him and me.

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