There was a theory floating around for a while that most of Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings of flowers were actually thinly guised interpretations of the female anatomy. I think it was discovered later to be the opinion of a certain male art critic rather than Miss O’Keeffe herself, but I still couldn’t help thinking I had just stared at a wall full of v*****s for the past couple hours. It didn’t help that Anise kept bringing up what we had planned for after the outing.
At first, she was subtle about it. She would encircle my wrist with her thumb and finger and then pull me off in some direction while she grinned. After a while she got bolder—maybe it was staring at all those v****a flowers that got her worked up, I don’t know. But at one point, when I said I needed to find a restroom, she a
