Patiently waiting for Charlette, he took to flipping his keys while sitting in a chair.  Key ring on his right index finger, Paul flicked them backwards, then forwards, then backwards repeatedly.  In mid-flip, The Vision appeared, and there went the keys to the carpet.  He tried not to stare, though he figured he was failing miserably.  The dropped keys, on the other hand, played the perfect distraction as he knelt to pick them up, thus taking his eyes off of her.<br/><br/>And what a sight she was to behold.  Charlette’s dark, long-sleeved V-neck sweater showed just enough of her bosom so as to tempt.  The amount of cleavage on display was what Paul would term a sampler, as he had no doubt whatsoever that she possessed various tops that revealed a whole lot more.  That trash bag concept of his was looking more and more like a genius idea.  With her hair out of those braids and free flowing, she cut quite the fetching figure of the young woman she had blossomed into.  Psst, Old Man, came the reminder.  I know!  I know! he laughed inwardly.  The make-up, well, that was like frosting, not entirely necessary, but more than welcome just the same.<br/><br/>“I thought we’d try<i>Mama’s Home-Made Pizza,</i>” he replied with a smile.  “Their deep-dish pizza is killer, though if you feel like something else, they also make awesome calzones and sub sandwiches, hot and cold ones.”  As Charlette stepped through the front door, Paul flicked on the porch light, and locked up behind him.  Walking toward her VW, he couldn’t help himself and glanced at her curvaceous bottom.  Big mistake.  A chant resounded in his ears: Trash bag, trash bag, trash bag.<br/><br/>You’re killing me, Old Man, he thought; yeah, you and me both.