Excerpt from Chapter 12 of
“Running in Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace“
He pranced round the corner.
His arresting, mystifying air captivated me: suave, debonair, and oh, quite a looker. I thought, I’ll stroll on by and check him out. Quickly making mental notes: tall, dark, high cheekbones, broad shoulders–
He turned with a mischievous grin, showing dimples! I averted my eyes and sauntered on by. He whistled. A warm sense of elation swept over me as I thought: He seems older; more mature than the other boys I’ve dated. Surely, this one has already sown his wild oats. I didn’t grasp how much older until later. But at the time I didn’t care.
He was a native of West Indies, thirty-two years old and born on June 6, 1943. If he had claimed that a year after he was born they…
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