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I waited for Bill at the outdoor café on Ocean Drive in South Beach. I had told him how I looked and the outfit I'd be wearing and right on time, he walked up to me, his self introduction accompanied by a nervous but firm handshake.

He is a stocky man in his fifties, beefy of build with a fair smile and a mellow disposition. On this day he was dressed in Dockers and a La Coste shirt, a very comfortable casual look.

We ordered beers and a basket of potato skins with melted cheddar and after some dancing around the topic Bill decided to get to the point. He reached into his back pocket and handed me three photos.

"That's my wife," he said, "Donna."

The three photos had been taken at a beach. I saw a brunette woman in her fifties dressed in fairly conservative swim suits that could not hide still firm thighs and generous breasts with nipples that pushed against the thin fabric of the top, defining their silhouettes clearly. Donna was no longer young but still desirable.

"How tall is she?" I asked.

"Five seven and weighs 147."

...

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