Chapter 4: Laundry Basket
Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3.

     We sat together and drank three bottles of Boone’s Farm wine, strawberry, talking art and religion and other things of dubious worth, getting to know each other in that special way only alcohol allows. Elizabeth thought me to be “peculiar.” I told her that she was beautiful and intelligent, so far as I could judge. Of course, three bottles of wine can make a conversation with a laundry basket bearable.
     “You’re the first college girl I’ve talked with in quite some time,” I told her, pouring more wine into her glass.
     “That’s nothing,” she smiled. “You’re the only dead trout fisherman I’ve ever talked to.”
     “Touche,” I said.
     She finished off the last drops of the third bottle of wine and reached for my hand. There was no need for words. She let her eyes do most of the talking.
     And her eyes, bless them, had this to say: “Well, sailor, what are you waiting for?”
     Her eyes didn’t have to ask me twice.
     “Bottoms up?” she said.
     I smiled and arched one eyebrow. “Indeed,” I said. “Indeed.”

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Chapter 5.

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