Her incredibly increasing curves strut and swing my way. I demurely deflect my glimpse, for she’s clearly caught on to the fact that I’m madly amazed at her fluid flexure. Gliding gleefully towards me, she showers one last ridiculously showy sashay, and comes to a rehearsed stop at my window. She asks, “Will you buy?”
She wears her skin leathery and sable from strutting her stuff and selling her fruit (mutual advertising, no?) in the searing African sun.
The gluey situation only lasts a trice, and then the traffic passes on. With devilish doubt, I ask my Self whether I would genuinely judge her pretty, or any prettier, if she weren’t drudging and moiling daily on the streets.