My name is Gail Linch. I am like a flower of magnolia, which is revealed slowly, but imperiously, with the very aroma that is remembered. I am not one of those who are afraid of numbers in the passport. Age is not an expiration date, but an excerpt. Like an expensive wine or skin of a suitcase, rubbed with frequent travel. And I had a lot of them. I go in heels that could destroy if I wanted to. My legs are long, fit, with history. They wore me on Milan’s boutiques, fled from the rain in Prague, measured the beaches of Miami with their steps. They know the price of every step. My spectators do not come for cheap adrenaline, but for what they lack: for sophistication, for a hint that maturity can be more dangerous than youth. These are men who acome for what they cannot buy in ordinary life: for intellect, for the conversation, for the very look, which says: "I know what you want, even b