It took an old man to touch my young breast to wake me up. I did not hear him come up to me as I sat in a plastic waiting chair because my Walkman blasted “Keep on Moving” from my Soul II Soul CD. I was in concourse E of Miami’s airport, waiting for my flight to Barbados. I was coming from Montreal in the February winter wonderland and did not know how to dress. I wore a beige cotton knit ensemble with my black winter jacket curled over my arm. I was also wearing the burgundy slightly padded bra I got for Christmas from my sister. The old man had touched more foam than flesh.