Tonight, as I was washing my hands in the restroom at the Iggle, a woman made a remark about the modern accomplishment of the touchless hand-washing sink. I agreed that it was quite the marvel and we exchanged smiles. She turned to leave, grabbing a laminated circular piece of paper from the top of the automatic hand dryer, quickly but deliberately kissed it and exited. I caught a glimpse of a face on the shiny oval as she passed and assumed that it probably was a photo of her mother or a child she had lost tragically. I quickly followed her out to try to see who was in her treasured photo. She had sat back down in a wheelchair right outside the restroom door and as I tried to walk both slowly and casually by, I saw that her most beloved photo was not of a kindly-looking woman, or a small boy, or even a little moppy-furred dog. No, the preserved image that travels with this woman on errands around town, is kissed openly in public places and most likely lays on the pillow next to her when she goes to bed at night is a studio lit, posed, airbrushed photograph of a tanned, shirtless, long-haired, moderately exotic-looking, poses-for-romance-novel-covers-for-a-living HUNK.