And so, thus emboldened by a hirsute chapeau of black Dynel, features defined by Max Factor, and a new frock courtesy of the House of Thickwhistle, I ventured into the night.
Pete told me to call him in the morning. “I want to hear all the juicy details, you saucy lass!” he shrieked from the door of my condo, where I had left the locking up chores to his trustworthy hands.
Several passers-by swiveled their heads to stare at both of us. Pete could be demure and soft-spoken when it suited him, but as loud as an evangelical minister with damnation on his mind when it did not. I lowered my head and tried to pretend I didn’t know him.
I had caught a glance at myself in the mirrored wall of my lobby and, for a moment, didn’t recognize the woman looking back. Pete had, in spite of his tendenci
