She was a keeper but he threw her back anyway, buried her in a shallow grave from which she kept rising up like a ghost.

“Sally, stay put girl,” he told her, but she never listened.

Sally’s not her real name, but why should she suffer exposure because of his loose-fingered ways, his stern look that shot her star from the sky?

Her real name is Penelope, her real name is Jane, it’s Patricia and Constance and Sue. What’s in a name anyway but a booby trap to blow your legs out from under you?

I know, you find this hard to believe, but my guess is you believe it anyway. Why else cover the page with your hands when your wife walks into the room?

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