My Secret Lenore
I was alone in my study, working on the final draft of the Sunday Editorial for The Seattle Tattler, when Janice burst in holding the cordless phone before her like a weapon. Her shoulder length auburn hair was in disarray, her perky breasts heaving in and out at me in a distracting fashion, her cheeks flushed to a bright red. Her blazing eyes were beacons of hormonal anger, her voice the hateful keening of a banshee. Though you couldn’t tell to look at her stunning body, she was three months pregnant. Her mood swings were growing more violent by the day, and though I understand that is to be expected, I was growing to believe the hatred they evidenced was not a symptom, but an already existing reality that had finally found an outlet. I was beginning to think my wif
