Just got back from the decidedly warm, 1.5-mile-round trip trek to the George Allen Courthouse to request a case I’m interested in perusing. (I had actually requested the case last Thursday, but when I went to pick it up at 4:10 p.m., a full 20 minutes before the records department’s 4:30 closing time, the lights were already off and a handwritten “Closed” sign was taped to the door. But that’s another matter entirely).
Anyways, I’m sharing my one-floor elevator ride to the basement with an older, bearded gentleman who bids me good morning, then looks at his watch, and is surprised to see it’s about 11:30 a.m.
“It”s almost afternoon,” he remarks, then pauses thoughtfully. “Been here all morning, and I ain’t seen a naked woman yet.”
I’d only been in the courthouse for two minutes, but, thinking back on my morning, I realized that I hadn’t seen any naked women either.
“Always a shame,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy. “Always a shame.”