To that end, and just to be on the safe side, after all the woman mightbe a killer on the run, she slipped some hair out of the Jenny'shairbrush and i...to her pocket. During the time she'd been pressing thepolice about her husband's disappearance and because she was a personnow of some note in the community she'd become quite good friends of theChief Constable for the County, so she hoped the cook's DNA could bechecked against their known rogues. However because of more pressingdemands she was. Not too bright. Good, if this was a hangover then he didn't want bright lights. It didn't feel like a hangover though, at least it didn't feel like his memories of hangovers past. Maybe hangovers felt different when you got older? It had been a long time since his last one.He looked at the walls. A cell! He was in a cell. Grey ceiling, grey walls, minimal furniture. No, not just a cell, a drunk tank. His bed was just a thin foam pad on the floor. No legs at all, so he couldn't injure himself. Love--I do not understand it. It consumes me, abandons me, beckons me,saddens me, disappoints me, arouses me. But, then, a breakthrough: arealization. Love is an idea; it is not real. Nothing we think orfeel--especially feel--is real.Only the moment is real. The now. The incident and the event are real,but only as long as they happen, for memories, also, are unreal.Very well. Let me explain. Perhaps an example will help. My breasts arereal when their weight is in my hands--or yours. They have. Then I pinched the material and pulled it away almost completely exposing my tits, and kind of flapped it, like I was trying to dry it. I bent over one more time, looking at the motor with my blouse wide open. And I guess that was to much for the one guy. He reached over and cupped my tit. I raised and turned toward him. Now he had both hands in my blouse playing with my tits. Their truck was parked alone side my car. It was a four door. The guy that had my tits, I grabbed him by the waist and.
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