She has slender hips, if hips at all, but as she stands they jut out to one side, framed cleanly by the tight yoga pants she wears and her form-fitting t-shirt. It’s all so postured, yet alluring. The clothing of a young woman in her prime, ready for the picking, yes, ready for the reaping, a desirous reaping, one that she welcomes but only from the man she loves. Or trusts. Her hand holds her suitcase and the other her phone, and she refuses to turn to me so that I might see her face. All the better. It’s cool this May evening. I wish to dream.