In the Louis Vuitton luggage advertisement on the back cover of The New Yorker, she looks to be indeterminately forty-four or so years, on youthful side of looking old. On Wikipedia, I learn she is approaching sixty-four, just a year younger than me. The raised collar of her trench coat, in the ad photo, covers her faintly sagging neck skin. Her wrinkles near her eyes are air-brushed away. Her beautiful legs--the legs are the last to go, I once read a Paris fashion designer say--are prominently displayed. Her legs could launch a thousand slips on the runways of desire. Even now. I love her look in the advertisement. A thousand fantasies. For a moment, just a moment, though her eyes do not look at me, I forget the inexorible march of my body toward the tattering age.