Is she, or isn't she? The hotel Starbucks is full of conventioners; she sat at a single, cellphone placed on the tabletop, tabulating her bills? Her investments? Her 401K?
At 6:50, the cell chirped. At 6:57, she folded her papers neatly into her clutch, sauntered off toward the elevators.
Going past, she gives me a modest half-inch of gold silky midriff between red blouse and black pants: So dainty, so classy, so carefully calibrated not to tighten too much against the promise beneath:
The first of the night.
{NA}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 11/13/2005 01:33:00 PM
•
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