They danced one more dance.“Want another drink?” he asked. Really, she didn’t yet. She needed to pace herself. Her third would be her last, and ...ven that would mean hoping she wasn’t stopped on her way home. She was conscious that her small frame could hold less than his massive one.“Not really,” she said. “I like to keep a clear head.”“Well,” he said. “We could get Cokes.” She liked that ‘we.’ He wanted to stay with her even if it meant sobriety. “Or we could keep dancing.” That sounded great.. The same game me and my buddies play every Thursday night. It was never supposed to be the exposure of previously hidden, shameful sides of my wife, of my family, of me. The game was held at Stan’s place this week. Just like it was five weeks ago. This time Stan had a cousin that wanted to sit in and play too. Dexter Teufel. Ugly bastard: pot belly, greasy mustache, smug cackle when he laughed, pock-marked skin like some of the Halloween decorations Stan had put around the place for the. More

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