Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. "Couldn't you speak to him?" "What?—and be insulted for my trouble? No, thank you!" "That is it. And he liked her. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her.
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