I see her as I leave the men’s room where I’ve just pissed out the extra-large Diet Coke I bought at the concession stand before the movie started. A terrible film, supposedly a comedy, though there were precious few laughs in it and one too many fart jokes for my taste. But it killed a couple hours, so who am I to complain?She’s crying quietly, but from the way her body hitches as she tries to breathe, I can tell she’s fighting hard to keep from sobbing. She’s pretty—in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, straight black hair almost down to her waist, thin figure, small breasts. Her lips are full—bee-stung lips, my mother used to call them—the flesh red with a purple tinge. The rest of her skin’s too pale, and her cobalt-blue eyes are overlarge and set too far apart. These flaws don’t detract from her beauty, though. Instead they heighten it, making her appear exotic. She’s wearing jeans and a brown old-lady sweater over a black T-shirt with the words DETROIT MUSCLE framing a picture of a spark plug.
