Past prime, divorced twice, a zoftig woman, cool as ice, she was one who knew. Sitting at the cabana bar sipping summer breeze, colored hair carefully tended, weaves very well-mended, a stylish beach hat shading precious resources. Ah, yes, she knew she’d do.

Hot in the tropics, yes? French Polynesian summer, mercury climbing, sometimes a bummer. Beads of sweat trickling deliciously down ample cleavage line, eye shadow applied quite fine.

Whitened, perfect capped teeth, a dazzling, yet blasé smile framed by lush, glossy lips. No one deigned to mention her lack of attention to give the cabańa boys decent tips.

Looking for Mr. Goodbar was becoming tiresome, a redundancy of growing discontent. Still she cruises, shmoozes, snoozes and boozes to pay her exorbitant rent.

A time looms near that brings the fear she will soon wither like wheat in heat, a dry stalk, wrinkled, sagging into shapeless invisibility to those who natter, the hoi polloi that matter, who talk the talk, walk the walk.

What then, she wonders, what then?

She, oblivious to her neediness, subtly sends out Karmic waves as she slaves to win the Battle of Age center stage, cellulite and frown lines infinitesimally winning more each day in every way despite bitter defense of collagen lips, lipo’d hips and frequent milk bath dips.

Walking the beach, she’s a peach, parading the runway, high thigh-cut, deep dellecotáge black one-piece flattering her age and shape, a subtle signal that could lead to rape.

Cigarette holder, four-inch heels, all a bit over the top, still, she carries it off with aplomb, a practiced Diana with arrows of libido, a walking, talking sex bomb.

There, she thinks excitedly, huntress sensing prey, good looking, fortyish, distinguished grey. Patek Philippe-wristed, Cardin-shaded, beach attendant-complimented, reeking status and charm.

She walks by slowly, taking her chance, a bit of hip roll flair, flip of hair, languid sidelong glance, breasts lifted in profile by casual stretching of arm.

Hint of smile at lip corner, so cool, reserved, it has always served. Many sharks have risen, been hooked and cooked. Still, ah, please, no, God, a possibility looms on her chronologically-challenged horizon: her lure is diminishing, her long run finishing.

Perhaps she will no longer be found as desirable, they will not dally in her arms, will not ache for her charms. Fickle men.

What then, she wonders, what then?



Trying a bit too hard, playing her ace card, using force, direct course, she moves on a God of Mount Olympus today, invites him to play.

Inane conversation, a poorly-constructed creation, forced laughter is not the solution, she pushes too eagerly for first contact resolution.

"Didn’t we once meet at Plage de Graniérs in St. Tropéz?" Squinting perplexedly, not quite so yielding, the prey invokes ages-old shielding, glass gate sliding silently down over now disinterested eyes. Manners impeccable yet aloof, in regret he sighs as his gaze lingers on smooth, rounded thighs.

So detached and polite, ah, woe, the kiss of death, you know, experience tells her so. Her run at him thwarted before even started, she withdraws her feline paws, following unwritten laws, undulating away with head high, showing the guy, what was tossed and lost, never kissed, what he missed, so long, adios, bye bye.

In her lush resort room feeling sadness and gloom, she finds a discrete note someone wrote. It lies upon the faux mahogany-veneered bureau, so innocent, still, it gives her a chill. Would the lady please contact the conciérge immediately about her long past due bill?

Slumping on bed, hands to her head, swearing un-ladylike terms, her stomach churning worms. Cards maxed, tapped out, she's had her last shout, the last hurrah has come up craps, she’s run out of rich saps. That's what it's now about.

At the end of the day with no place to stay, she considers the approach of the security guard, an old man immune to her siren’s tune, who will kindly, firmly, put her out in the yard.

What then, she wonders, what then?

Out on the road, with her angst-ridden load, the ignominy of carrying bags like homeless hags, she struggles in sling-backs, marching toward the docks with her perfectly coiffured locks, back straight, head up, a queen out for a constitutional as far as her world is apprized. Only tears behind Kate Spade lenses, and trembling lower lip gives subtle hint otherwise.

It is done, over, fini, the final end, she decides, I’ll go butch, go dyke, start riding a bike, pickup up cans in alleys, go to free food rallies, ride the bus to the welfare office, hit the street. Maybe live in the slums and do tricks for bums for a can of Sterno or sweet treats to eat.

Drama queen that she was, self-pity gave her a buzz, but lost in her introspective haze, at first was unaware of the man pausing to stare, even might have been said to gaze.

"Hey," he calls, "need a lift?" She stopped thinking of the grift, blinked away tears in surprise, stared in his steel-grey eyes. With decades of experience under her belt, she knew what he felt. He wanted her, she knew, her lips and breasts too, her soft, creamy smooth-waxed thighs.

Fire Down Below, all systems go, I still have it, she smiled and concluded. But sooner or later I must unveil all, and my underwired, gusseted body will fall. Lookout, guy, construction zone, hard hat not included.

What then, she wonders, what then?

An engineer with Petrochem, not rich but no dunce, he too had been divorced, but just once. His name was Paul, he was fairly tall, and basically had not gone to seed much at all. Diverted from travel away from road gravel they stopped for a drink at a bar, then left in his Beemer, a fast little screamer and as expected, she loved his car.

At his place talking for a while, the inevitable made her smile.In a gentlemanly way he offered her a place to stay, but to his credit he did it with style.She quit trying so hard then, fed up with men, and feeling little to lose, splashed madly in his shower, then with her girl power, depleted his stock of booze.

No gratuitous sex, she thought, what a change, after sleeping alone through the night. But she still woke up bare on the bed, rat’s nest on her head, hung over, her makeup a fright. Now tells the tale, she thought, looking pale, my sagging body will show it’s true shell. He’ll turn polite, thanking me for the night, and I’ll return to my personal hell.

Paul came in and saw her, naked and vulnerable, feeling old, yes really at her worst. She snapped nastily in defense, though it made no sense, saying she had to go, speaking first.

He grinned and said, with a shake of his head, "No, I don’t think so, you shouldn’t go. You’re funny and kind and if you don’t mind, while you’re still alive, I’d like to try to revive that sweet girl buried deep within- you know, the one that sneaked out and forgot to pout when you were full of gin?"

She suddenly perceived, quite relieved, a new future vista that made her mind churn wondering how on such a small moment life could so quickly turn. Funny, she thought, how this past twenty-four hours ends.

"I think I’ve been looking for someone like you a long time," she sighed. "I know," he replied, "me too, you. Let’s talk, I think we could be good friends."

What then, she wonders, what then?