She would sniff around for a female presence, and
then she would look at Paul; Paul would suggest that the sun was over
the yardarm; and they would go to DiMillo's for dinner.
Oliver turned his shopping cart around the end of an aisle, swerved,
and stopped to avoid bumping into Francesca's friend. She was studying
the pasta sauces, one hand resting on her cart, one hand on her hip.
Her jacket was open. Oliver's eyes lingered on her solid breasts and
tight red sweater. She looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Not much
choice," he said. "I found a good sauce at Micucci's--the one with a
great picture of the owner's grandmother when she was young. It wasn't
that expensive, either." He was babbling, starting to blush. Her eyes
narrowed and a small smile pushed at the corners of her mouth.
"Yes," she said. "Micucci's."
"Great place," he said, rolling by, pretending to be in a hurry. God,
the woman was some kind of menace. But she knew about Francesca . . .
And those breasts. He clung to the cart and let his vision blur as the
red sweater came back into focus. He blinked and joined a checkout
line. A skinny woman in front of him put a gallon jug of vodka on the
counter.
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