as sweet as honey

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining - I'm not even discontent. I have no idea what prompted these - what? reminiscences. I guess I put a sweater away and the thought crossed my mind that I had plenty of room for more,

I wondered, I reluctantly admit, as I do every so often, almost as if one wonders in passing, whatever happened to an old friend - I wonder whatever happened to Honey Katz.

Honey and I had a fleeting relationship - not that there's anything wrong with that - for several years back in the '80's. It would, I suppose, appear to outsiders that it was an odd sort of alliance.The only thing I new about Honey was her name and all she knew about me was my first name (I recall telling her it was Madonna) and my phone number, of which she availed herself with abandon . . . which was just the way I liked it.

I'm not at all certain that I'd remember Honey's face after all these years, but I am certain that I would remember the sound of her dulcet tone, her sultry voice. She never announced herself - there was no need. . Even before there was "caller ID", I'd know the call was coming from a secret location deep within the bowels of Neiman Marcus (aside: that may be the first time the words "bowels" and "Neiman Marcus" have been used in the same sentence) and I'd hear the words, "Last Call starts tomorrow. I've stowed four cashmere sweaters, one is a three-ply - deeply discounted." (There was something about the way she said deeply) . "As always," she continued, "no need to say a word when you come in to pick them up. The look in your eyes reveals all that you're thinking."