She looked away. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. He will return, and you shall be awaiting his arrival!” When her own underarms and groin turned pink, then blue, then black, she confined herself to bed. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp.
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