To me style is everything.
-James Tate
Standing in line at the post office, the lumberjack professor wore a faded flannel shirt with a babushka scarf on his head and waited ahead of me. He read Kant. I studied a tattooed deer on one big bicep and glanced at a red cobra on the other. The glass door opened, and a lumpy woman with dyed black hair and golden earrings the size of oranges wobbled in. She greeted him with a loud Hello, my man Bingo and open arms. Taller by a foot, he bent down and they hugged. He called her Bambi. They held hands and loved with their eyes, discussed Kant and Edward Hopper. The clerk served the two and then me. I walked slowly to my car, watched each tongue the other’s ear. She shook her jello butt in her lavender slacks and sported a green blouse with white polka dots. They slid into an orange Barracuda and embraced again. She backed out of the lot, a wide grin on powdered, puffy cheeks, and he beamed like a baby as the car squealed away, without Kant and Edward Hopper.