Dawn transformed into morning as the sun slipped over the horizon.  Sarah worked vigorously, while carrying her baby on her back.  As the sun rose, she could feel the heat of day beginning to sap her energy as she toiled.  It was the first crop of cotton for the year, but already, her hands had quit bleeding and the pain was subsiding.  She knew she would soon have to stop and place her child in the shade of the sour gum tree.  She would set her child under the protective cover of the tree as soon as she finished filling her sack, and then place another sack over her shoulder.  She had to make her quota plus two more sacks per day.  If she did not make up for the time lost during her pregnancy, they could lose their tenancy, a farm they suffered over for the past four years.  She would bring one hundred twenty bolls home to gin by hand while relaxing with her husband after dinner.  A pound of perfectly clean cotton that would put three cents into their savings, thanks to the generosity of their landlord.

            While Sarah labored in the cotton field, her husband, Henry, toiled behind a plow.  Henry’s back ached as he carried the stones to the edge of the field.  As he returned to the plow, he straightened his back and yelled, “Yo boss,” while snapping the reigns on the mule’s backside.  The mule started plodding along and Henry watched the furrow grow under the plow.  Every twenty feet or so, he would have to stop to remove the rocks.  They varied from the size of grapefruit to the size of a washtub.  The large ones, he had to slide and roll to the field’s edge, after digging them out of the soil.  A stone fence was starting to form along the two acres his landlord had released to him.  It would be their garden, his and Sarah’s.  Their tenancy was turning into something real.  They were beginning to work their own land.  It is what their landlord promised.  If they developed the land and worked it diligently, and met their contract to labor for him as well, he would give them title to the cabin he and Sarah had built.  He would give them title to the two acres as well.  In six more years, it would become their property. Henry had it in mind to bargain for two more acres, come next year.

            Sarah looked down the seemingly endless rows of cotton when she stopped to nurse her baby.  The time she spent nursing was the only relief had for her aching tendons. 

            It was growing dark when Sarah made her quota plus two sacks.  The lamp was burning in the cabin.  Henry had made it home before her.  She had some greens that she had picked from the field on her way home.  That would have to do for supper.

            She smiled as she reached for the door.  She was greeted by the smell of rabbit stew.  Henry found a use for those rocks besides chucking them at the fence line, she mused.

            After dinner they put their baby to bed and sat quietly ginning the cotton; removing every seed, every piece of stalk and stem.  It was money in the bank.  It was their only means of saving for the future.

            Henry Looked at Sarah’s hands as they worked.  They were becoming thick and calloused from her labor, but he was satisfied, they were healing.  He arched his back and grimaced as he worked.  Sarah stopped and made him lie face down on the floor so she could massage his aching muscles.  Henry could feel the curative powers of her hands turn intimate.  He turned over.  “My turn,” he said, reaching his hands under her dress.  Within seconds, they were finding their way to the bed.

            Later, as they lay gasping, Henry took her hand in his.  “Life has been so good to us,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

            “We’ve truly been blessed,” Sarah replied.

            They fell asleep, contented, looking forward to another day.

2.)                                                                                    Hunger

            It was a new job.  One of those part time things you do in the evenings and weekends to pay for the sin of being too ardent a spender.  It isn’t meant to last.  What does?  I mean, you always want more, so you put on your optimistic, though flawed, mind-set and enthusiastically go forward, toward the brink of disaster.

            It was the first evening, and naturally, I arrived early, exuberant, and optimistic.  As I stood outside contemplating whether I should work beyond my debt range, and actually afford my next voracious attack on the material world, she came walking toward me.  From head to toe, she was the personification of beauty, intelligence, and self-confidence.  She looked like an entrepreneur.  I could envision her on her luxury, super yacht ― not giving orders ― being attended to by a staff who knew their orders.  She looked at me and smiled, and returning the smile, I opened the door for her.

            This was one of those jobs where the employees sat at long rows of cramped tables going over insurance forms, looking for mistakes.  Forms without mistakes go in this bin, mistakes in another bin, and severally messed up forms go directly to the team leader.  It was monotonous, eye straining, and time drug on towards eternity.

            I was pleasantly surprised to find the entrepreneur sitting next to me.  Her name was Audrey, as in Hepburn.  She had just moved to the area and was working evenings and weekends, leaving her daytime free for finding better paying, fulltime employment.

            By the end of the first evening evening, we had built a comfortable relationship, by the end of the third; our relationship was intimate, like old friends who begin to realize there may be more there, than just friendship.  She plagued my mind as I drifted off to sleep and throughout the following day.  That evening, as we sat there, I pondered over how friendly I should become; she provided the answer.  Three times, she arose to pass on the more incongruous forms to our team leader.  Six times her body rubbed against my back as she made her way through the cramped space.  Upon completing the third trip, she said, “Your intent is obvious; you are sitting away from the table to force me to rub against you.”  I returned with; “I thought it was your intent to rub against me.  My intent was to enjoy those few precious moments.”  She chuckled.  As we worked, she passed me a note: “I suppose you want to feel my tongue in your ear as well.”  I wrote back, “Yes.  Where do you want my tongue?”  She wrote back, “In all the right places.”  I responded with another note: “Do you want me to give you some tongue right now?”  She looked at the note for a long time, then turned to look at me and nodded her head.  I stuck my tongue out at her and made a face.  She burst out laughing, which sent me into hysterics.  Everyone in the room was looking at us.  She wrote another note: “Your face is red.”  I noted her face was not.

            As the days went by we laughed and talked, and on a couple occasions, we were addressed by our team leader for disturbing the others.  She would playfully play “footsy” with me; we would lean towards each other, rub arms, and touch heads when we whispered.  Boredom was non-existent.  Break times and lunch were spent taking walks, holding hands, kissing and at times, lightly exploring each other’s body in a dark corner.  We talked about our past and our present; neither of us talked about our future.  She worked as a waitress during the daytime on the weekends.  I worked a day job.  We exchanged phone numbers; since we saw each other every day and filled the rest of our time working eating and sleeping; we never called.

            I needed more.  “Let’s take a day off, so we can do something together,” I suggested.

            “I can’t afford to.  You know how crappy this job pays, and the waitress job doesn’t pay any better.  This project ends in another week we can do something then.”

            When the job ended, she was out the door before I had chance to notice her departure.  I called, but the number was no longer in service.  I could still smell her perfume feel her body against mine, taste her mouth.  In time, the senses waned, even her image became hard to capture; nonetheless, my hunger remained.

3.)                                                                             Roadside Motel

            Karen reached her hand out and shutoff the alarm, whose piercing sound told her it was 5:30 in the morning.  She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.  “There must be a better life,” she mumbled to herself.  Then she smiled, because today would be different.  The morning routine would be the same.  She would shower, put on her makeup and fix her hair, while Daniel, her husband, woke their five and seven-year-old daughters, urging and cajoling them to get up, make their beds, and dress for school.  While her husband showered, she would wake and dress her three-year-old son, in-between her urging and cajoling her daughters, helping them with their clothes and fixing their hair.  Then she would make breakfast for them and their father, who would be done showering and getting dressed for the office.  She would drop her daughters off at school while their father brought their son to the preschool.

            The evening would be the same.  She would pick up her daughters from the after school program and her husband would pickup their son.  She would start dinner while her husband helped the girls with their homework, and they would try to get in some quality time at the dinner table.  After dinner, Daniel would work on the project assigned to him by his office while she did the dishes, vacuumed, and got their son in bed.  Once the girls had gotten that last glass of water, had been read to, and tucked in, they would collapse for an hour then turn in for the evening, because 5:30 comes so quickly.  After the first two children, she wondered how they found the time and energy to make the third.

            She smiled as she went into the bathroom because her lover had arranged for them to meet at the Roadside Motel.  To Karen, it sounded risqué and risky.  Deliciously immoral, and wickedly provocative, she thought.  Meeting at a place with such a trite name, seemed so sordid, so perverse.  It sounded like the kind of place lovers met for their elicit affairs and were discovered by their mates.  She hungered for it.  She would break the chains of drudgery and tear herself out of the marital rut she and Daniel had dug for themselves. 

            They had begun quarrelling.  Their arguments were nothing of great concern, she, spending too much on a dress, he, bringing homework from the office, when to visit the in-laws.  They were the little dilemmas that have vexed many people.  These were things that earlier in their marriage, they would have easily resolved.  Lately, their problems seemed to have mushroomed into major obstacles in their lives, insurmountable molehills, and not enough energy left at the end of the day to conquer them.  They spent their weekends avoiding each other when feigning civility wasn’t possible.  He decided he needed a night out with the guys.  Karen decided she needed time to herself, because the women she knew were PTA and dance class moms.  She didn’t want to hear complaints about their husbands, nor their congenial conversations about the things of everyday life from which she needed an escape.

            It happened on the previous Saturday, when Daniel went out to play ball with the guys.  Karen dropped the children off at her mother’s and went out shopping.  She window-shopped and browsed the counters, unsatisfied, uncertain of why she had decided to go out in the first place.  It wasn’t until he approached her.  That was when she knew what she was after.  He had come up behind her as she looked at a dress in the window.  It was the sound of his voice.  He had said it from the heart.  He said it as though they were in a crowded room.  He said it privately, so no one would hear, not even a lover standing next to them.  There was a hint of danger, the suggestion of a rendezvous between unfaithful spouses.  He said it while looking at the dress in the window.  At first, she was startled seeing him there, standing close behind her.  But his words caressed her, and a warm glow flowed from her heart engulfing her, turning her apprehension into feelings of intimate affection.  “Being in love is a special gift.  We should celebrate our right of ownership of that gift.”  He pointed at the dress in the window.  “I want to take that dress off of you.”  He slipped his arms around her.  “No, lets not even waste time buying it and putting it on.  Taking her by the hand, he led her across the street to the Marriott. 

            It was like the first night of her honeymoon.  She had forgotten how wonderful it could be.

            Last night, after the children were in bed and they had collapsed on the couch, Daniel said to his lover.  “How about a two-hour lunch tomorrow?  I reserved a room for us at the Roadside Motel.  I’ll pick you up in front of your office.  Oh, you might want to eat a sandwich at your desk before you Leave.”                                         

4.)                                                                       THE BARBERRY MURDER

             It was pitch black, the night of a new moon.  It wasn’t planned to be this way, but it was a perfect cover. Frank Moran remembered times of joy when he had effortlessly picked her up and twirled her around in the air.  However, the weight of death made carrying her corpse from the trunk of his car to the boundary of his back yard a ponderous task.  He laid her on the lawn and sat next to her body catching his breath.  Frank thought about the torment and deceit he had suffered and how it had brought him to this point.  As his rage began to rise once more, he jumped up and grabbed the shovel.  His biceps pushed against his shirtsleeves as he stabbed at the earth with the shovel and tore it apart until he stood in the 1½ by 5 by 4 foot deep hole.  He mused silently at making the hole that size.  He nodded his head.  “No one will ever know.” 

            Exhausted, he pushed against the shovel for support as he leaned against the cool earthen wall.  Three and a half hours had past since he had started his attack on the unforgiving soil.  He gasped for air, his eyes burned from the sweat that ran into them.  His body was covered in mud created from a mixture of dirt and sweat, the reward for his abhorrent deed. 

While his anger tore away at the earth in the black void that surrounded him, he had thought of it as digging his way to hell.  He didn’t realize it, but he hoped to bury his guilt along with the corpse of his fiancée.  Why did she call? he thought bitterly.  If only I had refused to see her; none of this would have happened.  It was his child, not mine.  I always reached out to help her and in return she always stabbed me in the heart.  Tears streamed down his cheeks cutting tracks through his mud-streaked face.  “Not this time,” he grunted, while jamming the shovel hard into the ground.  “This time I’m taking care of Frank.”  He steadied himself with one hand by grasping the shovel handle, and summoning the strength required; he leaped up in the air with an enormous grunt, reaching out for her ankle, jerking her body into the grave.  The thud of her body hitting the bottom of the hole jarred his subconscious to the forefront.  Overcome with guilt and fear, Frank collapsed vomiting on the victim he saw as transgressor.  Sobbing and shaking, he patted her soothingly, nodding his head empathetically before climbing out of her grave. This time he was crying for her. He dared not speak.  It would break him, and he would go to prison.

Dawn was hinting at a new day by the time Frank had finished showering and cleaning up all traces of his night’s work.  He looked out at the shadowy figures that were the three Wintergreen Barberry bushes he had just planted.  They were in a perfect line with the other two he had planted just before she called.  He was pleased with the results.  He would sleep until noon then he would plant the rest of the natural border for his yard.

Frank fell asleep immediately under the weight of exhaustion.  He tossed around and his body jerked involuntarily.  His fiancée was clawing her way out of the earth.  Then, she stood in the room before him.  She tore open her dress exposing the round protrusion housing her dead fetus.  Frank woke to the sounds of his screams.  He lay there in the fetal position, covered in sweat and clinging the sheet to his chest.  Someone was banging on the door and ringing the bell.

“Police!  Open up, Mr. Moran!”  The door crashed open.

Frank stumbled to his feet pulling the sheet with him to wipe the sweat from his body.  His mind was numb.  He knew they would come to question him, but not like this, not just waking from a nightmare and unprepared.  The police were already in the living room with their guns drawn searching for a target.  He remembered his plan of action.  He would keep it simple and say nothing without a lawyer.

“Frank Moran?” The Detective asked, while two uniformed officers searched the house.

 “Yes?”  Wide-eyed and shaking, he tried to sound authoritative.  “What in the hell?”

“I’m Detective Phellan.  This is my partner Detective Daniel Ebson.  Who was doing all the screaming, Mr. Moran?” 

“Me.  I was having a nightmare.  Did the neighbors call?  It was just a nightmare, nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“When was the last time you saw Janice Ross, your fiancée, Mr. Moran?”

“Ex-fiancée,” Frank corrected.  “Two weeks ago.” 

Detective Ebson looked curiously at his suspect, then turned and walked to the patio doors which led out to the back yard.  “Doing a little gardening?” Ebson asked.

Frank smiled, though his eyes looked haunted. “Yes, I’m putting in a hedgerow for privacy.  Barberry bushes.  They grow tall and thick with colorful flowers and long thick thorns.  Keeps out stray dogs and burglars, while remaining pleasing to the eye.”

“Take a look at his handy work, Mike,” Detective Daniel Ebson said to his partner.

Frank followed Detective Phellan to where his partner stood.  Phellan looked at the hedgerow, then took hold of Frank’s right hand.  “They’re some nasty blister’s you’ve got there.  Fresh blisters.  You must have been working on this project, oh I’d say within the last several hours.  Your hands must be too sore to do more digging.  Mind if we do a little digging?”

“What?”

“I couldn’t ask you to dig them up, not with those hands.”

Phellan put one hand on Frank’s shoulder and pointed with the other at the barberry bushes.  “You see those first two?  Now that’s to how I would’ve planted them.  Just the way you did.”  He took his hand off Frank’s shoulder to complete his gestures.  I’d dig a round hole big enough to accommodate the plant, then I’d dig another one and so on.  Just like you did, Mr. Moran.  Now, take a look at what you did with the next three bushes.  You dug a goddarn trench.   If digging holes to plant bushes isn’t more work than a man out to do, well, then I don’t know what is.  Why dig more than you have to by digging up all the ground in between the plants?”

Detective Ebson had stepped around behind the perpetrator.  Frank and Detective Phellan stared into each other’s eyes.  Phellan’s eyes were hard, though humor traced around the edges.  Frank’s eyes were filled with terror.  His lips moved but no sound came out, then he cried, “She won’t leave me alone.”

Detective Daniel Ebson was holding his handcuffs in his hand, smiling and waiting for Phellan to make his little joke.

“Book him Dano.”

5.)                                                                                Beguiled

            “I met her in the grocery store.  She was the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth.  It seemed so innocent, yet unnatural.  I mean, I’ve heard of people meeting this way, but not a guy like me, meeting a woman like her.  She was blonde, right down to her faint eyebrows and gorgeous blond eyelashes, batting over deep blue eyes.  Her attire was perfect for the warm weather, revealing a sensational quantity of perfect, unblemished skin.  Her body was a sensation of curves and it was apparent she didn’t wear or need a brazier to support her ample breast.” 

            Sergeant Rail looked at me as though I were some kind of pervert.  My hopes sank lower.  I swallowed and tried to continue.

            She said, “Excuse me.  Would you mine handing me one of those small tubes of Crest?”

            “I had just picked one off the shelf for myself, so I handed it to her.  I looked away so I could regain my composer without her thinking that I’m some kind of dork who has never spoken to the most beautiful woman he had ever met.” 

            Sergeant Rail looked amused.  It seemed as though the room was growing darker.  I felt lost.

            “I made some innocuous remarks and she responded as though I were a wordsmith.  Somehow, I forced myself to move on.  I guess I was afraid of her response if she had thought I was hitting in her.  We met again at the checkout and she struck up a conversation, which continued at the cocktail lounge and ended in her hotel room.”

            “I guess you could call it the beginning of my end.  In the cocktail lounge, she said she had a problem and needed help.  She didn’t just blurt it out like that.  She was too smooth, too practiced, too cunning.” 

            Sergeant Rail started drumming on the table.  

            “Okay, it went something like this: Her eyes glistened, as she leaned forward over her Chardonnay and she says, “I really appreciate you taking time out for a stranger.  I’ve never been to Wilmington before and it can be lonely when you’re somewhere new, and, well, I’m scared, frightened would be more accurate.  The only reason I went into the grocery was to get away from him.”

            She looked past me and her words came out in a husky whisper. “Oh my God, there he is!  We have to run. I hope there’s a back door.”  In that same instant she was out of her chair and racing through the lounge.

            “I saw a man heading toward our table. The last thing I saw was his hand reaching inside his suit coat.  When we were outside, I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward my car.  It was closer and faster than her rental.  She wanted me to take her to her room at the Marriot.”

            “Who is he?” I asked.

            She  said, “I don’t know.  He has been following me ever since I arrived here.  I’ve been receiving what I thought were crank calls and letters.  He keeps saying I’ll pay and he says he’s going to kill me.  I don’t know what I’m supposed to pay for.  He doesn’t say.”

            “What do the police say?”  I asked.

            She says, “I haven’t reported it.  I thought it was someone just trying to scare me and I refused to do anything that would give him satisfaction.”

            “We weren’t in the room two minutes and she was pulling off her clothes, screaming.  He came through the door, shattering it as though it were made of toothpicks.  He came straight at me reaching in his jacket.  I fired my Glock once, hitting him in the chest.  That’s all it took.

            Sergeant Rail’s eyes narrowed.   “She says you forced her to take you to her hotel room at gunpoint.  That’s her word against yours.  She says when her husband heard her scream for help he burst through the door to save her and you shot him.  That’s fact.  Witnesses in adjoining rooms and across the hall heard her scream for help.  Her husband was an off duty police officer from Charlotte, he was obviously reaching for his badge and I.D.  With that in mind, start over from the beginning, but keep in mind, you were the only one with a weapon, you were in control of the situation.”

            I tried to choose my words carefully.  “I had just gotten off duty. I’m a security officer at the shipyard.”  I looked at Sergeant Rail.  “And you are wrong.  She had the superior weapons; she was the one in control.”  He looked at me as though I were some kind of sap.  He was good when it came to reading people. 

  6.)                                                                       Lithium-ion by Dell

7.)                                                                              The Terrorist

            Joe grabbed the wet mop from the bucket and swung it into the perpetrator’s face. He drove the perp’s face into the wall, and then slammed him to the floor.  He then tore the container out of the perp’s clenched fist and slipped it into his own pocket.  Two more came rushing into the hallway.  Joe dumped the mop bucket over flooding the hallway and ran for the nearest exit.  The other two technicians never slowed their pace and took him down.

Joe had gone to the local authorities and the FBI, at first they let him fill out a statement and said they would look into it.  When they didn’t, he returned to them and pressed the issue.

“Listen, Environmental Conditioning, Inc. is a nation wide corporation and a subsidiary of Jamal Corporation, a mid-east conglomerate who supports Hamas, verbally and financially.”

“Even if you are right, we can’t arrest anyone because of their political beliefs.  Bring us material proof, something we can take before a D.A., otherwise our hands are tied.”

 A week later Joe returned to the FBI.

“What in the hell is that?” The Agent looked annoyed.

“Deadly spores and a strain of mildew that don’t occur naturally in an office environment.” Joe replied

The agent laughed.  “They were probably introduced on the sole of a shoe, or off of a plant someone placed on their desk, maybe off of a piece of molding salami.”

“They want you to think that.  It is all part of their diabolical plot.  Can’t you see that?”

“What I see is a Janitor with personal issues.  I’ll tell you what.  If you get counseling, and bring me a report from your doctor that says you have both oars in the water, I’ll work overtime to convince my boss there may—may be something worth looking into.”

Now it was up to Joe, the responsibility of ending the terrorist subtle attack on Corporate America had fallen upon his shoulders.  He hated having to bring civilians into the fight, but he believed he had no choice.  He went to his boss to present his case.  “Joe, you need help. I want you to take full advantage of our excellent medical program.  Start by taking two weeks off, but before you leave today make an appointment for counseling.  Joe, I want to see a statement from psychological services saying you are under treatment before you return to work.”

            Now it was up to him to stop the terrorist.  He had to initiate a standoff in the building to get  police involvement and media coverage.  The whole country would have to listen. 

            Three security officers arrived right behind the technicians who were still wrestling with Joe.  He fought violently and screamed for help.

            “We’ve got him.”  A security officer said.

            “Your whacko janitor knocked down our co-worker. I think he injured him pretty badly. Then the nut stole his environmental sample bottle.  We’re pressing charges and if I where my friend I would be bringing a lawsuit against every damn one of you.”

            The security officer retrieved the bottle and gave it to the technician.

            The technicians walked away while Joe screamed warnings of terrorist actions and frantically tried to break free.

The officer turned to his partners.  “It’s a damned shame.”

            “Yeah, I kind of liked this guy,” one said, while the other nodded his head in agreement.

            “It’s more than that.  You can’t tell it, but Joe was once a physicist, a biological engineer.”

            “No shit?”

            “He had a melt down when his wife died from lung carcinoma.  When he came out of treatment the company gave him this job thinking he was ready to get back on his feet.”

            The second officer grinned.  “Well, I’d say the poor bastard just wasn’t ready.”

            “Yeah think?”  The first officer grinned back.

8.)                                                                      Super-Geek

9.)                                                                           The Disadvantage

12.)                                                                    Discriminating People

            I ‘m not fond of blacks.  I mean, they are okay.  They have certain qualities that I have found to be universally palatable, so it is not just a peculiar taste or prejudice of mine.  I believe if you ask around, you will find most of us have a preference for the same constituents that make black people, palatable.  This discernment is readily obvious at large social gatherings, which allows one to observe the preferences of those attending.  Even black people in attendance will be seen enjoying the same visceral segments that are the quintessence of the black race.  Here again, you will also not help but notice how they ignore the less desirable components of which black people are comprised.

            I will however, readily admit to my love of Chinese.  My special passion, of course, is for Chinese women. Just watching them walk down the streets, makes me drool.  I am obsessed.  I admit it freely.  I am wanton in my desire of the Chinese, especially the women. 

            So there will not be a mistake in understanding me, and to put to rest any notion I am not a true gourmet, I will elaborate.  When I say Chinese, I am not saying Asian, as that would include almost everyone from India and east to Hawaii.  To speak of Orientals, would be just as inaccurate, as this would include Korean’s, Japanese, Vietnamese, et cetera. 

            Chinese, particularly the women are so beautifully sweet, wholesome, and luscious.  I could just eat every one of them up.  Most of them are slender, their fair skin enticing, and their bodies supple.  Their piquant lips and honeyed tongues are an aphrodisiac, the food of the gods.  I remember a time when I was compelled to kiss a Chinese of my acquaintance while we stood on a busy street.  When she offered her tongue, I became so overwhelmed that my body quivered.  It took every ounce of my energy, every strand of my being, to keep from biting off her passionate offering.  I had to excuse myself, as I was extremely embarrassed by my lack of control.  Of course, I later explained away my quick departure.  Fortunately, she was enamored by feeling my body quiver for the interlude of that kiss.  The delectable beauty, readily accepted my invitation for dinner.  I want to keep the rest of the experience private.  I’ll just say she is not someone I want to share.  She sates my avaricious desires like no other.

            Then there is my race; like most Caucasians, I associate mainly with white people.  I find amongst my peers, they are well favored.  Although, I think perhaps, they are a bit common.  Most live a monotonous existence, although always in a hurry, anxious, and worried.  I know this sounds like an oxymoron, but it is the lifestyle for the majority.  They are either swallowing handfuls of anti-acids, or popping tranquilizers.  Some taint their flesh with both substances, while destroying their livers and kidneys with alcohol.  They deceive themselves into believing the only choices available are to destroy their bodies with the poisons it produces, or to destroy them comfortably with drugs.  

            In the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, the vicious and ill tempered, prejudiced redneck who is chopped up, cooked and served as Barbecue to the police detective, I thought, a bit unbelievable.  There is a correlation, often espoused between the texture, quality and taste of pork and the white man.  While not denying this similarity, I find it hard to believe the detective did not complain about the quality of the meat.  The man’s flesh had to be tainted by the astringent outpouring if his fecal mind. 

            I always look for the person who is serene by nature, though active and proportionately muscular, though not toughened by over exertion.  The hindquarters of white men are usually the best part.  As I stated above, Blacks are iffy.  I tend to be partial to stomach linings, kidneys and livers, while The Chinese, Ahh, if only I could devour the smile as well.

13.)                                                                             The Chiseler           

            They are always an elegant affair.  These occasions arise every so often, as the need occurs.  Only the best of the best are courted.  The Invitations make their recipients salivate, their adrenaline flows, their senses become keener, and their palms itch.

            The men wear suites that are chosen to represent their niche in the trade.  You can pick their characterizations easily: the CEO, successful salesman, stockbroker, engineer, doctor, etc.  The women make their entrances in formal gowns, or they dress to present themselves in a chosen light, again: CEO, high-end sales, board member, stockbroker, lawyer, etc.

            The setting is usually a suite of rooms, chosen for its reduced rate, or possibly in return for a favor owed.  Bernie Watts was the hotel manager; he owed “the” Mr. Smith a favor.  He owed me one  as well, and somehow convinced Mr. Smith to include me in his gathering.

            This particular swindle was going to be huge.  Rumor had it that the operation would cover three states, involved three large corporations, and the take was in the millions.  I wanted in, but most likely, I wouldn’t even be considered because I always work alone.  Nonetheless, this was an opportunity for me to pick up pointers from the crème de la crème.  I did what comes naturally to a charlatan; I eavesdropped on conversations.  It is a fundamental in our business.  It is how you find clues about those who would make a perfect patsy.  However, this time I would listen and learn.  How do these pros sell themselves to Mr. Smith?  Do they garner support from others so that they will be included?  What does a grifter do to entice the organizer of  a one-sided-deal?

            I sidled close to Albert Finch, king of the pyramid scheme and listened in.

            “Ah there is Marty Broadloom and his wife Mary.  Internet scams is their specialty.  You’ll like Marty he is quite amiable.  In private circles he is known as Mary’s dupe, and Mr. Smith’s toadeater, if you will.  Please don’t think I’m being malicious.  We all have our strengths and our weaknesses.  If we’re smart, we capitalize on our strengths, and avoid our deficiencies.  Marty is of a special breed.  When the common viper pulls its head back, you know it intends to strike.  The cobra on the other hand weaves its head from side to side, causing its victim’s gaze to become transfixed upon its action.  They say it charms its victim before rendering it helpless by spitting venom into the poor wretch’s eyes.  Then it goes for the kill.  Marty is very accomplished at this.  Although he does overplay his hand at times, and this may prove to be his undoing.”

            “Have you met his wife Marry?  Exceedingly captivating when she wants something.  Of course, when she doesn’t achieve her goal, it’s a different story.  Yes she pulls her head straight back.  It is comforting in a way.  You know where you stand.” 

            With eyebrow raised, I crossed the room to listen in on Sylvia Link.  She is the goddess of the bank examiner scam, enticing account information from the unwary.

            “There’s John Hemlin; he invented the Nigerian money scam.  Everyone loves John.  Nevertheless, once we have been blessed with our manna, John will fall by the wayside in our esteem.  We’ll turn our backs on him to pay homage to the goddess of wealth and splendor.  We may even view him as a danger to our well-being.  Oh, don’t let that upset you.  No, you see we’re all instinctively self-preservationist.  It’s the way creation has designed us.  Survival is preeminent in all living things.  Besides, I can assure you, John will take every last penny you have in order to earn one cent for himself.”

            I couldn’t remain quiet.  “And you Sylvia?”

            She turned to face me.  Her mouth was a straight line, with the ends turned upward.  Her eyes sparkled.  “As for me, you’ll have to judge for yourselves.  If you will excuse me.”

            That’s when it hit me.  This is the only time they don’t con.  They want everyone to know what they know.  They want everyone to know where they are coming from, and where they stand in respect to their cohorts.  They can’t afford dissention or discord when on the gaff, and the certainly don’t want to go in with someone who’ll run a game on them.

            I started to feel better about my chances.  I’m the most honest and amiable chiseler I know.

14.)                                                                                Deja Vu

            Of course, there is such a thing as déjà vu.  It happens to people all the time.  But what is it?  Why does it happen?  How does it happen?  You turn down a street that you have never been on, in a city that you have never been to in your life.  Immediately, you recognize the stores, you know exactly where you are and you know what it will look like inside that antique shop. 

            The dictionary defines déjà vu as the illusion of having already experienced something that is actually being experienced for the first time.”  The definition doesn’t give credence to the possibility of such an event having happened in reality.  The literal translation from French to English is: “All ready seen.”  Can it be clairvoyance?  How can one see what has not happened?  If it has not happened, it does not exist; therefore, can there be any rationale to clairvoyance? 

            These thoughts ran through Michael Pretman’s mind as he turned the corner and entered the antique shop.  He knew exactly what he would see before his eyes fell upon the object.  He seemed to experience the déjà vu from a third party’s perspective.  It was as though he had no control over the situation; he had to follow through, unable to leave the shop or manipulate the events to change their outcome.  When the antique dealer spoke, he knew word for word what she would say.

            “Sir, the mask you are admiring is an original 16^th century Elizabethan masque. It is believed to be the masque of Ceres, the Roman god of agriculture.”

            The pang in Michael’s chest that had come and gone for most of the afternoon suddenly

became an unbearable weight and he fell to the floor.  Then he was wrapped in a feeling of complete serenity and peace of mind. He didn’t actually hear the music, see the colors, or physically feel the warmth, but he did somehow experience tranquil music, beautiful vibrant colors and velvet warmth. His first thought was, where am I? 

            “Purgatory,” a comforting voice explained.

            In that instant Michael saw a figure in the form of a human, but at the same time the form seemed as though it were flowing.  It was a fluorescent white form with a golden face.

            “Purgatory?  And you?”  Michael asked.

            “I am Raziel, your Guardian Angel.”

            “And I am . . .”

            “No longer on earth,” came the reply.  “You have returned to your natural form: that of an Angel.  You may prefer spirit or ghost.  It is okay, it will take you a moment to readjust to your natural world.

            “My natural world?”

            “It will all come back to you.  To prove our right to be close to God we agree to be tested by becoming human beings with the ability to make choices.  When our human lives’ end we relive that life in purgatory to see where we strayed from perfection.  The more right choices we make on earth, the higher the level we attain in heaven. 

            Raziel’s words were like a key opening Michael’s consciousness; he remembered all.  “Yes, what I called déjà vu; it was remembering a moment I experienced in human form.”

            Raziel smiled. “Yes, sometimes a certain memory is triggered by a word or event, and we remember it before it is replayed for us in purgatory.”

            “You have done well, Michael.  You have progressed from level one to level four.”

            “Loquin.”

            Raziel smiled.  “You have done well Loquin; only three more levels to go”

            “Oh, Raziel it is such an arduous task and everything is experienced in human time.         “Loquin, I just had a déjà vu experience.  When you said―”

            “Easy Raziel.  You are just remembering your telling me the very same thing when I was your Guardian Angel.”

15.)                                                                     In The Beginning . . .

           There was an infinite void.  This infinite void represented an imbalance; the laws of physics were not happy.

            Energy ― E = mc², or Energy equals mass multiplied by the square of the speed of light, or E = m/c² for static energy.  If, in the beginning there was a void, from where or what, did the mass, or solid material of today originate?  The answer: from the absolute vacuum of the void.  The void, by definition, had to be an absolute vacuum.  A vacuum is energy, and it was all that existed in the void.  Einstein had proven that energy and mass are interchangeable.  Therefore, has matter always existed?  Yes, in the form of energy.  How was this energy transformed, or converted to mass?  What initiated the change?  The energy was constant, so therefore static; was change possible? 

            Energy, even static energy contains thermodynamic properties.  According to the laws of physics, a thermodynamic transfer occurs between energy and a void, whose temperature is absolute zero.  Inertia prevented it for an infinitesimal period of time, hysteresis, slowed the process, but, eventually, a thermodynamic exchange took place.  Kinetic energy had been created, and an imbalance continued to exist in the void.  The rate of exchange increased; the concept of time had been created along with the concept of speed.  The transformation from static, to heat, to kinetic energy required movement.  Movement required action.  The thermodynamic energy amassed itself into high caloric packets, or quantum chromodynamics, attempting to meet the requirement of creating a balance by eradicating the thermal difference between void and energy.  The chromodynamic packets took the form of immeasurable bits of matter. The bits of matter became more efficient at transforming thermal energy by forming quarks and gluons in hadrons.  Neither energy, nor matter can be destroyed, only transformed and the laws of physics aggressively worked to create balance between energy and matter.  These infinitesimal particles were met by the law of gravity and grew to become inframicroscopic.  The inframicroscopic became electrons and neutrons, which eventually transformed into atoms.

            Within an expanse of time, the infinitesimal particles became an infinite number of creations.  Electric particles abounded, magnetic properties coursed through the once void universe, and electromagnetic forces came into being. 

            Amongst the chaos of creating a balanced universe, the laws of physics were the only witness to the creation of thought.  A unique combination of electromagnetic patterns sensed the universe.  They sought out like patterns and bound together with ionic plasma bonds.  As a form of energy, these patterns were able to direct their path, rather than become directed.  They avoided the unbiased pull of random gravitational forces.  Over an astronomical period of time, the patterns grew to become one; an entity had come into being.  Their knowledge, which began near the beginning of time, grew through their combined views of their world.  This one entity, defined by those of whom it was comprised, developed the ability to rationalize, developed patterns of logic, and formed ever-greater forms of abstractions.  What furthered their existence was the good, that which threatened it was the evil.  A philosophy developed, morality was defined, a system of ethics for existing by their philosophy came into being, and values were thus established.  They were complete; they were one.

            As they traveled throughout the universe, they began discovering other patterns, which had formed in other parts of the universe.  Some energies were of great size and power, while others were diminutive in comparison.  They were no longer the only one; however, they did not desire to increase in size.  The laws of physics said their gravitational force would collapse them and control their existence.  The entities ascribed appellations to themselves for clarity of intercommunication.   The lesser forms wanted the wisdom and protection of the one, the larger forms wanted to become the one.  Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and scores of others joined forces with the one, while Lucifer and a few other entities didn’t believe in or adhere to the philosophy of the one.  The one, who called themselves the Almighty, condemned those who didn’t believe, and drove Lucifer and the few from their universe.

16.)                                                                               Apollo

Professor Dodd sat there as though it were an effort to remain contorted within his frame.  His back was slightly twisted and severely bent.  It was as though the weight of the hump, which set to the right of center, forced the stooped posture.  The deformity forced him to raise his head, angled to the right, so that he may look straight at his target audience.  His mouth gaped slightly under the stress of performing the task.  The dispersion of the three large warts were his blessing, for their positions allowed the onlooker’s attention to center upon his face.  When he pointed a long gnarled finger in emphases, an observer may expect him to shrill “Beware of the Ides of March.”  However, other than the occasional gurgling sound, his voice was soft and soothing.  He spoke with enthusiasm; each word uttered, rendered assurance and gave support to his hopeful audience.  Even if he had known this would be his last speech, he would not have changed a word, not a nuance.

            The raised hand of a future poet laureate brings a look of recognition and the slight nod of the professor’s slender head.  The student warms to the recognition and poses a question, then awaits the answer with great anticipation.  The student’s confidence grows as the professor answers.

            It was hard to tell if the movement was to relieve discomfort or merely gaining a more relaxed position as the professor seemed to lean back, and cross one bony knee over the other.  His left arm’s dynamistic action, as always, was unrelated to his movement to reposition his body.  The desultory movement went unnoticed by his audience, whose attention centered upon his utterances.

            The Pulitzer for playwriting would go to the owner of the next question posed.  A question wrestled over for weeks, by the young artist.  The answer given was so simplistic in syntax, yet so complex in meaning.  The phrase rang like a bell in the youth’s mind.  Synapse fired, understanding on several levels rushed forward, adrenaline coursed like rivers through the young body.  Overwhelmed, half rising, then settling back down, glowing, the student could only nod and look with awe upon the mentor.

            Other’s stirred; a reverent mumble ensued, then all were quiet, awaiting the next jewel to be dropped into their laps.

            A boy, younger than the rest, timidly raised his hand.  “Sir,” his voice trembled, “I don’t belong in here, but I wanted to hear your lecture.”  He glanced around, expecting a challenge to his presence.  “I love to write, but . . .”

            “What do you write?” The professor asked, with the same respect he gave the others.

            “Lyrics.  I write songs.”

            “And, what is your question?”

            “I’m not very good.”

            The room broke into laughter. The professor raised a gnarled hand, and the room fell silent.

            The boy turned red, but continued.  “How do I become the best?”

            “The requirements are the same, no matter what the craft, or present level of attainment.  Love what you do, do it for your own pleasure, practice continually, study the masters, admit your failures, celebrate your successes, and most of all, believe in yourself.”

            It wasn’t the words, or their deep philosophical content, which made the boy one of the greatest songwriters of his age; it was the belief in the man who told him to believe in himself.  All who knew the professor knew his inner beauty.  His epitaph read, “Here lies Apollo Dodd, who directed the muses to inspire creators of art.  His speeches stimulated, exhilarated, and influenced writers so that they may have the courage to perform the extraordinary.”

17.)                                                                                  Closure

             Closure . . . such an odd word, so simplistic and finite.  It says so little.  Listen to its lack of quality, or character: clo – sure . . .  It says nothing . . . useful.  I looked it up in dictionaries, encyclopedias, and thesauruses.  Not a one had a useful definition.  The definitions just, pardon the pun, ended, concluded, ceased, terminated.

            What did I expect?  What was I looking for?  I don’t know. . .

            They told us the cancer was terminal.  No one had ever survived this particular type of cancer.  After the operation to remove her lung, followed by radiation and chemotherapy, she was cancer free for two years ― not a trace or a sign.  Then her legs gave out while she was walking.  There were brain tumors, and pieces were breaking off and going into her spinal fluid.  In two weeks, she was no longer with me.  I watched her suffocate, her entire body fighting for oxygen, while the tubes pumped the supposedly, life sustaining fluid into her nostrils.  I witnessed her last gasp.  I saw the blank stare of her eyes. I closed her eyelids.

            Neither of us believed in mysticism.  Man created God in his own image.  A God would not be contradictory and inconsistent as portrayed, by all religions.  We were both familiar with the contradictory and inconsistent explanations for the contradictory and inconsistent dogma of religion.

            In her last day at the hospital, before coming home, a man of the cloth came to her room. I don’t know what denomination he followed, but she asked him for the ‘last rights,’ she asked for absolution, for closure.  She looked at me, embarrassed at having asked for incantations to be pronounced over her; a magic spell that would give her everlasting peace.  I smiled and nodded my head, “Thank you,” I said.  She knew it would be for the both of us.  It would be our final significant action as husband and wife.  She looked relieved, ready to accept her fate.  I left them alone so she could get the closure she desperately needed.  It didn’t work.  I know it didn’t, because a couple of times during the night, when she thought I wasn’t there, she cried.  She cried like a child, a child lost in the dark of night.

            It has been four years and I still don’t want to live without her.  I think about her everyday.  Most of my thoughts give me a warm, comfortable feeling, thoughts of moments we shared.  At other times I am torn by the pain of having lost her, I hear her last gasp in her fight for life; I see her blank eyes, the light of life, gone.  Then, there is the void, the feeling of . . . nothing.  No, not a numbness, not a result of being constantly overwhelmed by painful memories, but a complete lack of feeling, a cold dark void, which shrouds me so the world won’t hear me cry out in agony, so I won’t cry out, so I wont’ feel the pain. 

            Sometimes I think of her request for absolution, her need for an afterlife.  I think of my granting her the right to desire it without feeling guilty for betraying her long held beliefs.  I now know I needed her to believe in the afterlife so I could have something to hold on to when she was no longer a part of my world.  I needed her approval.  I needed her to accept my hope, my desire to join her in a different existence.

            This hope, this desire for mystic relevance has become my nemesis.  What are the rules?  Do I have to suffer until some force beyond my control ends my earthly existence?  If I end my suffering, will I lose my right to see her again, as some believe?   Maybe it is Gods plan for me to end my own suffering.  How do I find out?  Isn’t it my right to be with my wife? 

            Does closure only come when you die; does it come even then? 

            Define it for me.  What in the hell is closure?

 18.)                                                                       Common Ground

                        Marty stood looking out at the rooftops from his Condo in Manhattan.  He looked at his Macallan scotch and swirled it in the glass.  For the first time in his life, he wanted her to understand him.  He started with how they met.  He ignored the luggage next to the open door.

            Becky sat on the sofa feeding on vengeance and Chateau Lafite-Rothschild.  She gulped the last of her glass and poured another.

            “Marty, you were the typical long-haired hippie type, commie, fag, junkie.”

            He whirled to face her.  “A fag?  Where in the hell do you get off with that?  Fag,  Christ.”

            “Billy Holloway.”

            “Billy Holloway?  We were in a commune.  Everybody experimented.  I don’t believe this.  I married you.  You are going to tell everybody that story aren’t you?”

            She looked at her wine with satisfaction.  “I’m going to tell everybody the truth.  You are leaving me for a younger woman.”

            “Younger woman?  Don’t be ridiculous, she’s forty.  You make it sound like she’s twenty-four.”

            “You’re the one that’s ridiculous.  Look at you, sixty-two years old and you dress as if you are twenty-four.  People laugh at you behind your back.”

            “When I met you Becky, people laughed at you to your face.  Horned-rim glasses, a sun dress with bell-bottoms, hairy legs and hairy armpits.  I loved you from the moment I saw you.  I didn’t laugh.  Now, you ridicule me every chance you get.  That’s why I’m leaving you.  There’s no respect.”

            “She has stubble.  Is that why you’re attracted to her Marty?”

            “Stubble, what are you talking about?”

            “I’m talking about your secretary.  She has hair stubble on her legs, and shadows under her arms.  Is that the attraction?  Does she remind you of Billy Holloway?”

            “You want to talk about attraction?  You had those bell-bottoms off for half of the commune.  I married you in spite of yourself.”

            Where’s the attraction in body odor?  You were a middle-class hippie wannabe.  You put on the oldest clothes you had.  Clothes that your mommy bought for you and you didn’t bathe.  You thought that being a pig was being hip.  Everybody laughed at you then and they laugh at you now.”

            Marty went to the sofa and leaned over her, assured his Michel Germain’s séxûal pour homme cologne would overwhelm her olfactory.  “I’m sorry I didn’t come from an orphanage, like you, but you didn’t seem to mind my middle-class background then, and you certainly have taken advantage of the upper-class, wealthy lifestyle that I have afforded you since.”

            Becky bolted from under his arm.  “Oh yes, the great Bohemian who suffered for the masses, until he caved in to the establishment and became a major player in corporate treachery.”

            “Bohemian’s don’t suffer for the masses; they don’t take part in the struggle of the masses.  They suffer for their art and live free of the chains that enslave society.”

            “Spoken word for word from a Yale text, I’m sure.”

            “Oh and how did they word it in the Wellesley text?”

            “They said Bohemia was a Czechoslovakian providence where the gypsy men were faithful to their wives.”

            “I’ll bet it also said the wives didn’t debase their husbands as well.”

            Becky went to the open door “That’s because the husbands don’t screw their secretaries.”

            “We’ve come full circle; we’ve gone nowhere.  You continue to debase me.  I want you to understand, me.  I want you to understand what brought us to this point.”

            “The point is, if you want some sort of piece of mind, some form of satisfaction, get it from the same place you have been getting it from; your secretary.  Oh, and Marty, like a Bohemian, you will suffer for your work.  My lawyer will see to that.”  She kicked a small bag into the hallway.  Without looking at him, she turned toward the bedroom and walked out of the room.  From her sanctuary, she said in a barely audible, but very definitive tone, “Goodbye Marty.”

 19.)                                                                                 Falling

            “Michael was always such a good boy,” Mrs. O’Malley said.  “He helped out others without their askin’; Lord knows he did more than his share around here.  I don’t know what I’d do without―”  Her eyes filled with tears.  Her tears ran down her cheeks and dripped upon her chest before her neighbor, Mrs. Conrad, could jump up and give her a handkerchief.

20.)                                                                                        WAR STORIES

                                                                               Humor Under Duress

           I was attached to the grunts of F Troup of the 8th Cavalry, who usually addressed each other by their last name.  There were only two members in this tightknit group who weren’t referred to in this manner:  Sarge, was the wise old veteran who knew all the tricks of staying alive.  He was on his second tour in Viet Nam; he was twenty.  The other person was the Lieutenant, whom they called Lieutenant to his face, and referred to him as the “old man” when they made reference to him.  He was twenty-three.

            One bright sunny morning as we headed for the mess hall, rockets came screaming across the sky.  The rockets' condensation trails told us that they would go beyond our position, so we stopped to see what target was sought.  A couple of seconds later the rockets exploded on their objectives in the Engineer Corp’s outpost, which sat just below F Troup’s hill.  Buildings and vehicles took direct hits; men ran in all directions, the wounded screamed in agony and the uninjured screamed for medics to aid their fallen comrades.

            “Poor Bastards,” Lehman said, expressing everyone’s first thought.  The thought, which followed was, better them than us.  We didn’t allow the first thought to sink any deeper than naming it.  A grunt couldn’t afford that kind of chink in his armor.  We didn’t allow the second thought to go further than thinking it as well; we didn’t want to lose sight of our humanity.

            That evening a bunch of the foot soldiers sat around a garbage can filled with iced beer.  “How many got it?” someone asked. 

            “I heard 22 dead and 47 wounded,” Brewer replied, then added.  “Did you hear Jones got it on patrol last night?”

            “No Shit?” Someone exclaimed.

            “Yeah, sniper.  One shot in the head.”

            “Hey Miller.” Burlewitz said. “Tell them about Walters.”

            Miller looked down and shook his head.  “We walked into an ambush and Walters takes one in the chest.  He got it in an artery and it’s pumping like a geyser.  I stick my finger in it to stop the bleeding until a medic can get to him.  The problem is, the medic and most of the others are pinned down.  I see I’m in a position to flank Charley, and draw the heat off the others.  So I take hold of Walters’ hand and force his fat thumb into his wound and press his other hand down on top of it, and tell him to keep pressure on it.  He says to me, ‘why did you pull your finger out, Miller?’  I says, I remembered it was the finger I use to pick my nose.  He says, well hell, Miller, that’s how I come I got hit, it’s the thumb I had up my ass!” 

When the roars of laughter died away, someone asked, “Did Walters make it?”

            Miller turned away and shook his head.   As the silence became strained Lehman said, “Jones was a damned good guy.  I miss him.”

             “Everyone who knew him liked him,”  Rankin added.  “He was a unique individual.”

            There was a moment of silence and Burlewitz said, “Yeah, but you’ve got to admit, Walters was an asshole.”  Everyone burst into laughter.

            Miller grabbed a beer to walk him home. “Leave it to you Burlewitz.”        

            “I’m going to turn in,” Lehman said.

            “Yeah, me too,” Miller said.  He had to write a letter to his mom.  She worries too much he thought.

            “I’ve got to get ready to go out on patrol,” Rankin said.

            “Hey Rankin,” Burlewitz said, “wait up, I want to go out with you guys.”

            “You better get permission from the old man.  You know how pissed he gets when we get killed without his say so.”

            Miller pondered over what to say to his mother, as he nursed his beer.  What do I say? 

            Hi mom . . .

21.)                                                                             Nostalgia

“You told me you weren’t married,” Dalia said, pausing for him to comment.  He was silent.

She looked at him through tortured eyes.  The hours spent crying left her looking much older than her twenty-three years.  Her face was drawn, her eyes puffed and red. 

            He looked at her with deep concern.  She turned her gaze away from his eyes.  She only agreed to meet him here to prove to herself, she had the strength to face him, and end the relationship.

“Now that you have succeeded in making me feel used and cheap, I will grant you your victory over an easy target and get on with my life.”  Dalia got up to leave the booth.

            “I never said I wasn’t married.  I said I wasn’t committed to anyone, I and wasn’t; until I met you.”  He was forty-two, handsome, and self-assured

            “Of all the cheap lines,” she threw at him, as she slapped his face.

            They were at the Silver Diner, one of the many neuvo-nastalgia diners that spanned Maryland and Virginia.  It was an attempt to bring back the feel of the defunct neighborhood gathering place with tabletop jukeboxes at each booth.  This one was silver with fire-engine red trim, which spanned the length of the two dining car replica.  It was also the place where they first met.   When she arrived, he was sitting in the same booth they shared on their first encounter.  Seeing him in that booth sent a burning sensation that went from the pit of her stomach to her heart.  In that moment her grief and anguish turned to anger.

            He looked into her eyes for understanding.  She slapped him again.

            “You can only hurt me by tearing your heart away from mine. That is where I keep yours, close to mine, where both beat as one.  I haven’t lied to you.  I was wrong by not telling you everything, but everything I have told you is true.” The pain of losing her, was evident in his face.

            “Are you as truthful with your wife?”

            “No. I lie to her.  I’m not proud of it.  I hate myself for being the way I am.  I know it is dishonest, and people will be hurt, but I never wanted you to be one of them.”

            Dalia sat down and looked out of the window.  “How could you fool yourself into thinking I, the other woman, would not get hurt?  Damn it, the other woman is the one who always gets hurt.”  She paused, he said nothing.  “When were you going to give me the, ‘she doesn’t love you or understand you routine’?”  She threw her hands in the air.  “Don’t answer.  You weren’t.  Not until I found you out.  Not until tonight.  If you don’t have anything to say, I might as well leave.”  She said, starting to leave once more.

            “I would never give you that crap.  I didn’t use you.  All I did was fall in love with you.  I’m married and I’m in love with you.”

            “You would have to tell me sooner or later.  What did you expect to happen when I found out?” She eased back into the booth.

            “I’m vice-president of the company her father owns.  If I leave her, for another woman, I will lose my job.  He is a very powerful man.  He will have me blacklisted.  I wouldn’t be able to get a job in a convenience store, unless I left the state.

            “So you just figured you would play it safe and sleep with the both of us, and somehow we would all live happily ever after?”

            He looked deep into her eyes.  “No.  I haven’t touched her since the day we met.  But I have been working on a plan.  You have to understand, I am very well paid, large bonuses, perks.  I figure in two years I will have enough socked away to allow us to start our own life.  I will be able to start my own business.  Sweetheart, we will be free to live our lives together—forever.”

            The color came back into her cheeks.  She smiled.  “You really mean it, don’t you?”

            His face took on a nostalgic look, as he thought about his younger days.  He thought about the conquest he had made in a vintage diner similar to this one.  He always had the gift, a silver tongue.

            “Of course, my darling.”