July 12, 2006:
They had their own private semaphore. A tug on the earlobe meant, "I love you."
The other girls all wanted him.
Once at a conference, the sister of one of his colleagues made a spectacular gesture, bending over provocatively, elbows on the speakers' table, ass in the air, looking back over her shoulder at him, smiling. She held that pose for what must have been an uncomfortable period.
He always chose wrong. The ones who were trouble. Rebel girls. He could have had the nice ones, the loyal ones. They never moved him the same way.
They still don't.