ON WAITING IN LINE AT THE POST OFFICE

I can't remember much of what happened to me (or to anyone else present) the last time I stood in line at the Post Office, but let's say that the whole thing went more or less as follows.
I arrived carrying no packages and intending to purchase nothing but one small prestamped envelope. The line at that time was not extremely long yet not very short either, and I perhaps felt more impatient than I should have.
Being young, lecherous, and not yet quite blind, I gave myself over to looking at whatever women were standing in line with me. Yet, always being eager to escape standing-in-line situations, I perhaps spent too much time in trying to figure out (on the basis of this, that, and the other factor) how long I might have to stand in that blessèd line.
The women that day were, shall we say, sufficiently luscious to keep many worlds on fire for eons and eons. One girl, as I might insist I recall, seemed too curvaceous for words, at least in certain parts of her physical being, and another seemed slender to the point of ghostliness yet as radiant as radiant could be. Meanwhile, the line was moving forward, and I with it, by leaps and bounds, though, to me, of course, things seemed to be going at their usual extreme snail pace. I looked for distinct signs of decidedly blooming and burgeoning celerity, but, of course, I remained incessantly disappointed.
Well, I remained very, very disappointed, but only in a relatively marginal sense. After all, I was quite delighted to be near a few vessels of pulchritude who might not flit away for at least a few minutes -- females of my own species, each standing and staring in just about the same way I was and not seeming much to mind whether my penetrating little glances sometimes seemed to penetrate certain parts of certain people too much. (The curvaceous lady was, as I recall -- and at just about that time, I tardily might add -- , standing both not far from me and in an absolutely splendid pose. She was, in fact, at one of the so-called windows and was transacting whatever business she had, and the whole event was, to me, an ocular feast.)
In fact, I suppose that, as the minutes unfolded, my desire to leave that rather sterile postal lobby decreased and decreased. The wraithlike yet radiant woman always was standing directly in front of me as the line inched or galloped on, and I kept deeming her "a sort of superangel." And that other woman, the curvaceous one, as she seemed likelier and likelier to be slipping out the door very soon, had me far more excited and thrilled than, for all I knew, I ever again might be. And, then, there were other women who excited me in some quite exotic erotic ways; and, all in all, the other folks, young, old, and beautiful (though perhaps not so amazingly beautiful), kept seeming rather like family.
Yet, in a few minutes, of course, I had purchased my little whatever it was -- ah, yes, an envelope! -- and had gone out the door. For a while now, though, I may still recall the large beauty and the perhaps always minuscule uneasinesses and discomforts of that whole, fine scene. The characters have scattered to the wind, almost literally, and the building will keep deteriorating, yet that little drama, or whatever else it was, had, I'm sure, some earthshaking consequences. I stood and waited for almost nothing, and I soon came away with far more.