One of the women who works at my local coffee shop has, shall we say, a rather attractive, curvy figure and it’s quite an extra little shot of joy to see her working sometimes when I go in there for my triple grande (my wife, of course, will always be my number one for the obvious reasons). My pervy thoughts have danced around what she may look like sans vetements, but my eyes have stopped afixed upon the small crucifix she wears just above her decolletage. Now, we all know I’m not the world’s most religious guy, but my obvious prejudice turns to the idea that she’s a wee bit innocent – especially compared to her rebellious looking and oft sarcastic, yet witty, co-workers – and, perhaps, thinking of her in such ways may not be the most appropriate idea. Damn my internal civil dialogue.

But today I noticed that, beneath her standard-issue apron, her clothing seemed designed to accentuate her many assets, clinging to each curve. And it hit me – perhaps the cross is a red herring. Perhaps, tiring of men lowering their gaze breastward when they speak to her, she began wearing the cross less as a symbol of faith and devotion and more as a moral checkpoint for those more interested in her body than her mind. Granted, this won’t work for everyone, but that may make it double as a handy character filter, one I apparently passed. Assuming, that is, she didn’t catch me looking down her shirt while she reached down for the milk.