Naomi Addison wore too much makeup, I thought. She was one of those women who thought that if they put a stronger bulb in their sockets, they would seize the attention of eligible men and wash out the competition. Her torturous, painful hunger to satisfy her need to be loved again was not unlike Daddy's thirst, I thought. Maybe that was what revolted me about her more than anything.
"God, get a life," I wanted to say. "Don't grovel and plead with your sexy clothing, lustful eyes, and voluptuous body to get yourself a new companion, who most likely will bring you back to the altar of divorce you now flee."
If she would wash most of the heavy makeup off her face, take the brassy gold color out of her naturally light brown hair, and wear less ostentatious jewelry and bras and dresses that didn't exaggerate her nice five-foot-seven, nearly hourglass-perfect figure, she just might find someone substantial. But that thought left me the moment she opened
