Chapter 55: The Blonde And The Brunette.

On my way home, I ducked inside a coffee shop for a short rest, ordered a decaffeinated latte, and hunkered down in a big overstuffed armchair. On the couch next to me sat two women—a blonde and a brunette—who looked about my age.

The blonde balanced a baby on one knee as she struggled to eat a brownie with her free hand. Both ladies wore tiny diamonds on their left ring fingers, just as Andrew once told me that the Brits are less ostentatious about engagement rings than Americans. I think that is one of the reasons why Andrew likes London. The Brits' understated quality is the opposite of what he said I am—more or less a shameless showoff.

From the corner of my eyes, I studied the women. The blonde has a weak chin but good highlights; the brunette wore gripping aqua velour sweats but held an enviable Prada bag. I know I'm not being shallow for checking out her clothing. I am just being observant, which is a very good virtue. What isn't okay, is drawing conclusions about the women as