Stanley poured wine. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor.
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