Wearily plopped down in a chair at a long table to wait my picture turn. If there had been a casting call for the part, whatever it was, she would have been picked immediately on sight with her short-cut-dyed-brownish-black bob, white ruffled blouse, rubenesque figure. She was seated perpendicular to me, at the table’s end. Asked her what number she held and she said it was #59 and had she’d been sitting there since #20 was up on the board. She lived nearby but she was cooked. Thus began the sharing of the story of her charmed life. She had grown up in the nearby town, the most beautiful in the state, in her opinion. She had married an army man and together they had lived in Europe and various other states [She elaborated in detail and positive antidotes] They’d had a good life. He was now dead, rest his soul, some ten years. She moved back here then to be near her sister. She works at a diner, a waitress, four days a week and loves every minute of it; loves her customers, the town, and oh, yeah she is dating a nice man. ‘Don’t want to marry him, we go for dinner, for rides, he is a nice man. That’s all I’ll say’. Come to find out it is someone she dated when she was 17. [She is now 60+] At last #59 appears on the board and away she waltzes to tell the man behind the desk a thing or two about her long wait and the man who went before her, but came after. Ten minutes pass, she bursts out from behind the curtain, dancing down the aisle between the rows of chairs, shouting to the mostly amused crowd of 11 that she is done for another four years. She wishes me well, and as she is sailing by, I say “I will come to visit your town, and stop at the dinner, but who do I ask for?” “Sarah” she tosses over her shoulder and disappears out the door.