She stared into space and he stared at her breasts. They were well-covered by her winter coat, but the lump was enough for Arnold to estimate their shape and size. His lusty imagination filled in the rest of the details: the color of her nipples (a lighter pink than usual), their weight in his hands (the equivalent of two apples per breast).
Why couldn’t women like her ever fall for someone like him? Women with dark hair and thick glasses and good breasts. Surely some of them have a fetish for older men. Men with gray hair and sturdy noses and low cholesterol for their age. Arnold was a successful man; he could easily provide if one of them wanted a sugar daddy, but it seemed that most women no longer wanted to be provided for.
Sometimes I feel like a bad person when I impose personalities onto people. Sorry "Arnold"-who-is-probably-not-a-creep!
Last night I went to a former professor's book launch. His The Complete Idiot's Guide to Literary Theory and Criticism was recently published, and although I have not yet read it (after all, I only got it last night), I'd recommend it if you're at all interested in the topic. He's an excellent teacher; in my theory class he was able to explain even the most complicated concepts clearly and with humor. I imagine it's going to be a lovely read.
Tonight we have writing group! Our last meeting was canceled due to a stupid snowstorm, so I'm excited to get back at it. Can't wait to workshop...
In related news: I am the nerdiest human.