Many trees’ leaves had begun to change one crisp afternoon on a gorgeous Memphis day as Palmer was operating the “Crosstown” run on the return leg toward downtown.
“Wow, Simone, you look fantastic, you’re more gorgeous than ever!” He ogled her hungrily, focussing on the edging of her white-lace shorts showing off her gorgeous thighs.
He stood up there at the front of the room, pale, with a patchy white untrimmed beard, wearing a voluminous gauzy pastel cardigan, blinking his watery blue eyes at the audience from behind thick glasses.
My mind flipped back and forth between what I confusedly imagined the inside of my mouth looked like (pooling, foamy, dark but somehow illuminated like a cave as if there were chinks in it) and a hall of mirrors, you know, a maze where all the walls are mirrors.
"We used to make them à la polonaise, in sour cream, but since Chloe doesn’t live here anymore, no one eats them but me, and you probably wouldn’t like them that way.”
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