"Across the street from the office, in Columbus Square park elderly Italian men and women would gather each afternoon to sit on the benches. The men would laugh and talk or just sit in the sun and smoke their inevitable smelly black cigars. The women were always busy. They knit, sewed, watched grand-children play on the grass, and guarded their brood from the Hippies, whose garishly painted campers took up residence under the trees along the verge of the park. The oldest of them would sit for hours, saying their rosaries, occasionally striking their breasts and crossing themselves as they gazed with pious longing at the cross atop the Catholic church across from the park.

Sometimes, to get herself in the mood before beginning her work Dominique would stand in the window and languidly stroke herself as she smiled like a goddess accepting homage from the upturned faces of the old men below. Like a pack of ancient dogs they watched the windows each weekday for a sight of her. The women were also aware of her. With red faces they crossed themselves and shook their fists in her direction, or made the sign of the Devil with their fingers. That would never fail to amuse her and inspire even more provocative display, until she finally tired of the game and went to work."

The Game of Love