Pretty woman.

The pretty African-American woman asked if I was looking for the shuttle bus. 'No,' I said. 'I'm merely out for a walk.' I was at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix ambling back and forth between Terminals 2 and 3. Killing a couple hours while waiting for the arrival of my Italian true love on a flight from Italy. Anyway, an hour later, I spotted the same woman again. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. So I inquired. 'Are you waiting for the shuttle?'  Turns out, she's employed by the airport to assist passengers on and off the shuttle. Reason enough to strike up a conversation with another stranger. As is my habit. We talked about her job. And personal stuff. She's lived in Phoenix virtually all of her 30 years. I volunteered stuff, too. About how I came to meet my true love. My ploy. To get the pretty woman to talk. About her life. She's married. To a guy she met on the Internet. He was living in Georgia. And that's where she went to live for a while. But now they are in Phoenix. For good, it seems. Both working at the airport.  But she also has established her own business, a hair salon. For which she's a walking advertisement. The first thing I noticed. Her hair. Fabulous. Long and curly. Afro-American style. Her most becoming feature. We also talked about what it's like to be black in America. I know one thing. I'd hate to live in Georgia or Alabama or Mississippi or Louisiana  or Texas -- as a white man. And much less so as a black. But she's a survivor. Young and enthusiastic and gracious and charming. I wished her all the best and a very, very happy life. She deserves it. --Jim Broede