On the airplane, the woman across the aisle and one row in front of me was beautiful. She wore the best pair of blue jeans in the history of the world. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Is there such a thing as the greatest jeans in the world? Can denim be sacred? Probably not. But I’m trying to make a point here. The woman was an epic series of curves. The ghost of some ancient Greek lute player is vainly searching for his instrument so he can sing ballads for and about her. Okay, I’m exaggerating again.

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