Everyone said Ray and Dianne were the perfect couple. Certainly, they displayed identical amusement at my recounting an evening at the local exotic-dancer bar.
“Her body was so perfect,” I said of one pole dancer, “even her feet were beautiful. Not a flaw, a callus, a bunion – nothing. Anyone can appreciate breasts, but when a woman has feet like that, she’s perfection itself.”
Then, at some point, the laughter stopped, and they crashed on whatever rocks were submerged in the shoals of their marriage. He became a programmer up north, and she stayed in Newport Beach and became a podiatrist.
“Her body was so perfect,” I said of one pole dancer, “even her feet were beautiful. Not a flaw, a callus, a bunion – nothing. Anyone can appreciate breasts, but when a woman has feet like that, she’s perfection itself.”
Then, at some point, the laughter stopped, and they crashed on whatever rocks were submerged in the shoals of their marriage. He became a programmer up north, and she stayed in Newport Beach and became a podiatrist.
