Soft thuds are sounding on Karen’s apartment door. It is a quarter of nine.
“Good thing we got dressed early, girls,” she comments, rises from the sofa to answer.
There stands a very rough and tumble looking man, bald with tattoos everywhere including his head, dressed in jeans, black boots, and a biker’s vest. He smells clean and of expensive cologne, carrying a dark bottle of wine and a gift bag.
“He could just as well be coming to meet a date,” Karen thinks to herself, then asks, “Can I help you?”
“Excuse me,” he says in a rough but firmly gentle voice. “Would you have a Tracy Weston here?”
“Yes, you have the right place. Sna…”
“Snake!” Tracy screams from over her shoulder and comes barreling past her and into his arms.
“Tracy, baby! How the hell have you been, girl?”
They hug
