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March 31, 2011
The question took her by surprise.

"What do you think of Lacerta de Bouchard?"  He was not facing her, his downward gaze unfocused, nervousness evident in stance as well as in the sudden use of his pseudonym.

What does she think of him? What does she think of diamond hot stars studding black velvet nights? What does she think of mountain breezes, of the sweet explosion of ripe peaches against a parched tongue? What does she think of him?

"I think, uh, you ... you're like I imagined ... I mean ..."

Major fail. Slit my wrists now, she thought, heart thudding.