Her face, her hands, the way she crossed her legs – she was almost too perfect, like an amalgam of everyone’s idea of the perfect woman. The problem was that she was beautiful in the way a committee would decide what beautiful was—she might not fit any living person’s idea of it. Too perfect, too unapproachable, too damned good-looking.  She looked like, what, the dictionary definition of perfection? It shook me.

Yes, Angie was beautiful, but she had me with her voice and particularly her laugh. It was melodious, inviting, and immediate. It might as well have been a siren’s song–  maybe a siren crooning some Joni Mitchell, because she did have just a little of that West L.A. lilt in her words and in the way she tossed her hair and held her head. I realized it had been too long between words. I had been taking inventory of her. I had been staring for way too long. She stood and light from the window illuminated her face.  Angie Thayer was our new client. I reflected on that a moment and decided I liked the idea of it.

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