Let me tell you about Eve. Built like a Venus statue: five foot nine, with 128 pounds poured into a 36-24-36 hourglass—exactly the stats that win beauty contests. Which of course she never entered, on philosophical grounds. “What’s the point of entering the Miss Solar System Pageant,” she’d say, “when I’d be the only contestant? Where’s the challenge?” You had to be impressed with her ability to think those things through. Also, with her moral values, her refusal to parade her stunning attributes before a pack of my chauvinistic colleagues with only one thing on their minds.
And talk about charm! I’ll never forget how she’d raise her eyebrow ever so slightly and flash a hint of that very knowing, adult smile, which you could read all sorts of things into. The original Mona Lisa.
Except that she was blonde. In the evening, among palm trees on the moonlit beach, her hair shone ever so gloriously. We took many an evening stroll, Eve and I—she in her tastefully-appointed evening gown, me in my diamond-studded white shirt and tux. Gazing into each other’s starlit eyes, singing Italian arias, quoting portions of the Sonnets from the Portuguese. Sharing inmost thoughts. Comparing metaphysical speculations. Making plans for the future. Until that fateful day. But I’m getting ahead of myself.