Posted: 03/01/2014
Two weeks ago, on a Tuesday night around nine-thirty, I saw a woman standing in the produce section at the Pavilions on Jefferson Boulevard with a melon balanced in the palm of each hand, carefully guesstimating the difference in weight between the two items. I didn’t know who she was; I’d never seen her before, but once I noticed her it was impossible for me to look away. She was maybe five nine, five ten, two-twenty at least – as perfect an hourglass as I’ve ever seen, with ample hips and a soft, pliant midsection. Her face was teakettle-round and gentle, like something out of a nursery rhyme. This woman, in her quiet, fallow shade, moved elegantly through the aisles, every ten or fifteen paces stopping and checking the list she’d written on her phone, to make sure th
