Sara always got a few stares whenever she went into town to do the shopping. She knew what those few ogres thought: How dare she cross the colour line? Or her English grandparents. How they must be turning in their graves. Even here in Brazil, a land of too many colours to be able to count.  Sort of like when Lisa Presley married Michael Jackson. What colour was Michael nowadays anyway? And why the hell was colour important to a lot of folks?

Right now she just sat on the front porch. The temperature was bliss and there was a slight breeze. She was horny and had trouble concentrating on other things. One hand held the other or they’d shake. He should be there soon and she’d let him know. He’d be pleased, of course. He liked it when she was horny. Maybe they’d do it before supper. After all, it was ready on the stove. All she had to do was to heat it a bit. But if he wanted to wait until later, till night, that was all right too. As long as it happened. But sooner than later would suit her!

She saw the blue truck. It was him, her husband. Driving up the hill toward the farmhouse. His mouth seemed to be moving. His body certainly was. He loved music and to sing, dance and hum. He was good at it, too. She loved listening to his cadences. Her heart pounded and joy engulfed her body and soul. A strong man with a strong mind and body she’d married. The Lord’s gift?  Who could say?  She wasn’t ungrateful at any rate and she frequently saw women much worse off.