The scarf trick worked. Knitted into the elaborate ribs of my "fashion neck warmer" was an ounce of killer hash I purchased as a "taster" for my boss. It perfectly fooled Croation customs, and I imagine it'll be a bitch to seperate the hash from the weave. The real pity will be losing the scarf; it was the first one I ever wore and was muy becoming.
During a layover in Presque Isle, I sat in Turner & Hooch Cafe and held the scarf to my nose, drawing in gasp after gasp of the potent scent between sips of Ron Tingley Tea. A Barbara Alton lookalike showed promise -- and a perfect view of her rosey snatch -- from across the oolong bar. She winked. I winked back ...but with both eyes.
An hour later, we were in the women's lav smoking the Nepalese from a tea infuser. Her name was Clinique and she was smoldering.
"Wait," she said. "Hold on a minute. I know it's in here. I know it is." From a macrame bag I'd mistaken for a plant hanger about a half hour earlier, Clinique produced a red velvet cummerbund.
"I want you to wear this," she exhaled. With the sharp point of a Lee Press-on, she caressed the ridge of her heavy breasts as I wrapped the band around my neck. I had to ask:
"Was this what you came to Maine for?"
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