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38 again, but left it be. The mere thought of holding the damn thing was too much. I’d been cured of guns during a run-in with my father’s 20 gauge shotgun when I was fifteen. But that’s another story for another time.”Brookpark, Ohio. 1970. Another time.Saturday afternoon.I was watching TV in my bedroom. I saw rapid movement in the hallway outside my door. The old man had flashed by and into my parent’s bedroom. The old man never moved fast. Ever.“Uh, oh.”The night before I’d gotten the old man’s shotgun out of their bedroom, loaded it, stuck it out the side door, and blasted it into the night toward the backyard. My parents had gone out for the evening. My older brother was at his girlfriend’s house.Not satisfied, I kicked out the empty shell, reloaded, and fired forth a mirror image of that charter blast. Sated I jockeyed up the street and dumped both shell casings into the storm drain, then went back to the house. The neighborhood was as quiet as before I blasted it.He came out of. ?No, no. You’re mine.? he said, and my knees turned to jelly as he dragged me to the bed, pushing me down on my back, crushing my chest with one knee and my pelvis with the other as he fished around for something. I tried to grab his balls for defense, but his jeans protected him and I felt a very hard slap on the side of my ass. ?Be good, or you’ll pay.? he said, and even in the darkness I could hear the delicious smirk on his lips and I longed to see it; just imagining it there was torture. He found what he was looking for and then his hands were busy undoing the button and zipper of my jeans, which he yanked down roughly, only to my thighs. Then I felt soft rope slide underneath my thigh and he pulled it up so it ran under my ass and then over my pelvis, snug against my inside thigh like a mountain climbing harness, which he wrapped several times around the very top of my leg. ?Oh, Matthew?? I said dreamily, and I practically heard the smirk.
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With her voice in my ear, colored slightly mocking and sing-song by my experiences, I put my mind to catching a thief. T'was not difficult. The man on the board looked like no one I knew in our small town, and there were few places a traveller might stop before venturing on, as they did. I visited these places: the tavern, the merchants' row, the pawn broker's stall, and spoke loudly to my peers of my pearls, my silk skirts, my grandmother's silver, and I left my window unlatched by night. He did not come the night of the first day, nor the second. I despaired, I admit. A woman has needs, and mine have built steadily. I worried that I would be left to satisfy myself for the rest of my lonesome life, gasping in the dark on my own fingers. Most called my hands graceful, and usually I agreed, but in the dark their slenderness was hateful. But I fretted for nothing. My thief was simply concerned with timing. The third day was Valentine's Day. I heard the old hinges shrill in my dreams,.

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