I met her at a rest stop in Blandford, Mass. this past Sunday. I was standing in front of a wall of snack food at the gift shop when I saw her slowly pacing through the adjoining Sbarro’s, squinting through her glasses at the grease-soaked pizzas on display.
I went numb.
I’d caught just a glimpse of her, out of the corner of my eye no less, but I knew it was her instantly. It was a sub-conscious recognition, as if I’d already memorized her every dimension, as if hours of television exposure allowed me to keep a mental blueprint of each of her distinguishing traits.