Die a Little

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The first thing I noticed was her curves. Not that they were unusual either in number or softness, though they rated better than average on both counts. It was their behavior which fascinated me. They flowed as she walked.

I have watched women in high heels walk fast many times, and even the most streamlined tend to jiggle like a plate of jelly. But this woman’s heels striking the tile floor created not a single jiggle. She moved with as much oiled grace as though she were strolling barefoot instead of nearly trotting on three-inch heels. Her curves were dynaflow.

When it occurred to me if she kept moving straight toward me, she was bound to notice my preoccupation, and might resent it, I raised my eyes to her face.

And I got another surprise. Though she was a complete stranger, her expression was one of soulful delight at joining the one man in the world she loved.

She was beautiful, clear from the tip of her finely chiseled nose to the carmine tinted nails which peeped from her open-toed pumps. Her complexion was milk white, its whiteness stressed by jet black hair which framed her face in a long, pageboy bob. Her eyes were wide spaced and deep blue, and her only makeup was a vivid lipstick which matched the color of her toes.

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