Then I saw her at church. Son of a bitch. My cousins would check out any woman under fifty. Any woman if she had just one decent attribute, so of course I had never believed the hype. Talk about a man’s wet dream. Her body . . . fucking centerfold-worthy. Her hair was a weakness of mine: black, silky, and long enough I could wrap it around my fist twice. The thought had flitted through my mind unwillingly. And at church. Jesus.
