"Do you like fried ice cream?" she asked. "Frigid inside -- hot outside. An intriguing combination of temperament, don't you think?" I nodded, never having given it much thought. "Decadent," she continued, "like me." I took another sip of coffee. Like her? "Drop-dead gorgeous," she explained, "but such a bitch. Hot, like coffee." (And bitter.) "You've noticed." Yes. That overpowering aura of authority, experience, intelligence, cunning... At first, I thought it emanated from her impeccably professional accouterments. Those short-skirted business suits, provocatively tight over her forty-three year-old body. Then I saw her in jeans with the persona undiminished. Must be the eyes, I decided. So dark, and encircled by intriguing lines of character. (Unless she's younger than I suspect -- in which case, her eyes are even more telling.) "Have you noticed my car?" she wondered. "A red Lotus with a tan interior." (Yes, and a diamond ring nearly as large as the car.) "Red is the color of passion." Fast? "Hard to control," she mused, "Like my husband." (...the presumed source of the ring.) "Have you noticed?" I shrugged. Yeah. I was a little disappointed. "Well," she said, "If he were to die, the car... It's yours. You understand that, don't you?" I took another sip of coffee. It was strong. If I weren't used to it... She watched me looking at her, and said, "You want my body." (It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer.) "Decadence..." She knew it well. "You," I said, "And the car. Don't disappoint me." When she raised her cup to her lips, I saw her hand tremble -- just a little. "Tan interior..." I said, looking into her cold eyes, "Not my first choice. But it will do."