” “You’re in the right place for it then… ID, please.” I feel the butterflies go wild in my stomach. My best friend got me a fake ID a wee... ago and promised me it would pass. I dig in my purse and hand him it. I feel pale, and faint. He stares at it for what seems like forever, than nods. “You know what you want?” “I do, yes.” “Good, he’ll do it in a short bit.” I look to where the burly man points and see a young man working on someone else. I nod again, and sit down. I pick up one of. My wife was very tall, towering over me at about six feet, like some amazonian caught as a prize in war. But Miss Gilda was short, and stocky. Her breasts were large, proportionate to her frame, and her hair was a tangled mess of orange-red that dangled down to her buttocks. Staring at it, as I perhaps too often did, reminded me of an old print I once saw, by a surrealist. It was supposed to be a copy of Vermeer’s Lacemaker, but had come out as a depiction of the artist’s sister, naked, bending. More

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