The woman in my dreams last night sat on a bench with her husband. She had the broad slavic face of a Russian peasant. He was more KGB. As she gesticulated with one hand to emphasize some point she was trying to make in her monologue about the joys of world travel, I studied her ruddy face; a face marked by several chins, undulating like clay hills, crescent-shaped fat packets under her eyes like sandbags at the levees of her watery dark eyes.
She wore an unusually ugly burnt orange crocheted cap, its bright label still attached by a white plastic umbilical, and sticking out at a rakish angle like some disguised antenna. Her stream of consciousness blather required no listener participation.
The husband was dressed in charcoal gray all the way, from Hush Puppy shoes to a zip up sweater jacket. He sat absolutely still, taking advantage of his wife’s covering stream of words to stalk me with the unblinking eyes of a predator.