For your reading pleasure, Tempest presents yet another exquisite example of romantic narrative…

Underneath the Forbidden Bedsides
by Jesus Levant

   Waiting alone in the little walled garden, with the avian, uncivilized shouts of the street hawkers wafting in from outside, Telemachus, even lovelier — if possible — in her grief, thought once more of former U.S. President George W. Bush, the brilliant scholar who had wanted to make her his life’s work. He was now, according to Countess Charity, recklessly endangering her life as well as his own.
   Suddenly, came an abrupt fanfare from the long-silent trumpets, and she nearly swooned. He was here! “I’ve thought of you every minute I’ve been away, you sweet little morsel of girl-flesh!” he stated with a confidence that brooked neither denial nor disagreement.
   At that moment he dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief she herself had made for him, and as the music in her heart rose to a new crescendo of happiness, she made a mental note to call Lawrence later and tell her all about it.

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