She’d stroll across the office in the most outlandish high heels I had ever seen. Saucer-sized hoop earrings bounced off her ear lobes with every step. A short, tight skirt revealed shapely hips and calves and when she sashayed past you, cigarette poised between two fingers, you had to stop and admire the vision before you.
I was 8 years old at the time and she would have been no more than 30 years old. She was my first crush before I ever knew what a crush was.
Raziya was tall and buxom and of Middle Eastern descent. She was unmarried with no children. Her jet black hair was always kept closely cropped, with ringlets framing her hairline down to her temples.
“Hair just gets in the way of business,” she’d say in her commanding, but jovial, voice, winking. I had no idea what type of “business” that was. Then she’d…
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