She was all legs and breasts when I saw 
her yesterday. It was hot. Not just the kind 
of hot that has people wiping their foreheads with 
the back of their hands and cursing the sun, but 
the kind of sweltering heat that spreads over everything,
turning the world into a mirage of shimmering light.

She strode through it all with a confidence 
that defied the oppressive heat. Her long legs
seemed to stretch for miles, cutting through 
the haze with each step, like a woman who 
was used to walking through cotton fields, 
a down-home girl, as Taj Mahal would say.

Her dress clung to her in all the right places, 
a whisper of fabric that revealed more than
it concealed. It wasn’t just her physicality that 
caught my eye, though that was certainly part of it.
No, it was something more—something in the way
she carried herself, the way she seemed to embrace
the heat rather than complain about it.

I found myself thinking of Daisy Buchanan and Fitzgerald’s 
immortal lines about her voice being full of money. But this
woman had something different in her voice, something 
richer and more intoxicating than the empty clink of gold coins. 
Her voice was full of summer, the kind of languid, 
honeyed tones that make you think of lazy afternoons
and the taste of ripe Georgia peaches.

She moved on, disappearing into the crowd, and I was 
left standing in the heat, feeling the sun beat down on me
like Muhammed Ali. I couldn’t shake the image of her, 
I couldn’t dispel the sense of something important slipping 
through my fingertips. It wasn’t just desire, though 
that was part of it. It was something deeper, something
that spoke to the very core of who I am and who I want to be.

But like Prufrock, I wasn’t sure if I should dare to disturb the universe
nevertheless, the question hung in the air, like the oppressive humidity,
demanding an answer. It was a challenge, a crucible forcing me
to confront my own desires, take a leap of faith and follow 
her into the unknown.