A Scene

There is a large silver car with chrome wheels and chrome trim down its long curved sides, idling at the curb.  This car is a real ride, a heavy beauty meant for long drives on the open highway.  It is sleek, rounded and powerful.  It rumbles and purrs as it idles.  A man steps out of the driver's side door.  He wears pressed slacks with a cuff, and they billow when the air catches them.  His shoes are buffed to a dull glow, a cool idea of handsome.  His fedora is pulled down level, and the grosgrain band is level with the horizon.  His eyes are shielded by the hat.

The man steps to the rear door of the car, and he glances inside, pausing a beat, then opens it wide.

A neat,  black 3-inch heel clinging to a beautiful foot begins its descent to the street from within.  He admires the toe of the shoe, with its peek-a-boo opening, the arch of the foot, the curve of the ankle and the long curving lines that are interrupted by the hem of the skirt.

He helps her step across a puddle at the curb, shuts the rear door and tosses the keys to the waiting valet. The valet looks at the woman in the black pumps and long legs and whistles silently at the other man, who suppresses a smile, tips his hat and turns to offer her his arm.

"Shall we?"