Leaning against the wall, Alan sighed contentedly as his wife bent to remove the basted hens from the oven. He could not help watching her calves, and the swing of a breast beneath her outstretched arm. Like Alan, she would not be invited to model clothes for any of the top New York designers, but for a woman in her late forties she was still quite good-looking. Certainly she was a bit thicker about the waist than when she was young, and her glossy blonde hair was going gray—but those lines around her loving green eyes were testament to the years they had spent together happily. There were pretty young girls by the thousands all around—he saw them every day downtown and when driving past campus—but it was his wife that he loved. In his eyes she was beautiful. She was the best.
“Delicious,
