There she is. . .

I saw her yesterday, in Trader Joe's.  How could you not:  tall, perhaps six two, even before those elegant black heels, clearly new, no nicks, no spots. Pencil jeans on her lanky frame; a simple white spaghetti strap tank, her dark hair falling straight below her shoulders.  Olive, carefully tended skin - doe-eyed, I suppose, although those eyes were kept cast down, as if in protection.
We tried not to stare, or at least I did, sort of, but it was difficult.  Perhaps that is why she was armed with her mother, or I assume it was her mother, a stockier, shorter version of the olive skin and dark hair and not-from-around-here air, beautifully bejeweled and dressed more carefully than the rest of us.
Perhaps she was already twenty, but I doubt it.  In any case she had enough  time, enough experience as a catalyst for The Gaze that she was already resigned.  You could see it in her body: I know.  I can't help it.  Look all you want.  But be gentle.  
She moved languidly down one aisle and then another. Would pick up a box of cereal, a package of sausage, a bag of nuts, and simply stand there, staring at it for awhile, before putting it back.  No smile, no word to the mother, standing close, no reaction, one way or another.  Could she not eat it; was she fantasizing pleasure?
No matter where she appeared, the air seemed charged with our efforts: hers not to be conspicuous, the rest of us trying not to make her so, and failing, one by one, sneaking another glance, men and women alike, all of us keyed up somehow,  holding our breath.
How will she survive it, this beauty?  I hope there is a land where she can break a nail, work in her garden, get pregnant without worrying about stretching that perfect belly.  I wish her peanut butter and jelly and hearty laughter and messy, satisfying love.  Perhaps when the wrinkles begin to appear, and I hope that she will let them, she can celebrate off camera. I hope that we will grant her permission. . .