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For days, how many in that darkness I know not, I lived on tears. I raged, I shouted, I threatened, then I would relent, plead, apologize, promise to live contritely and to bear Monsieur beautiful children if only my Cordelia might be spared. One night I was awakened by a familiar voice. It was my father opening the door of my cell. News of my calamity had reached our village and my father, doubtless feeling guilty, had hurried here to save me and succeeded in bribing a guard. Monsieur was trumping up charges of witchcraft, using my tribadism as evidence to convince the elders of the town to burn me. This was my only chance at life. I would be hidden away in a nunnery, to live a life of fasting prayer and devotion. On no account could I ever see Cordelia again. We rode all night, my father and I. I could see that he had not believed the charges against me at first but my reaction to the news of having lost her, my one true wife in the eyes of the Lord, my misery, made plain to him. She seemed to have a little bit harder of an edge to her, and I never really saw why Lisa thought she was so hot. Maybe I was jealous of her. I don't think we really ever said more than ten sentences to each other, but now she was chattering away and I had to now stay on my toes to keep up with her. Sharon didn't want to go to the mall, but said she had a couple of videos back at her apartment that she hadn't watched yet, and suggested that we could make something there to eat. I didn't know what to do, I felt trapped, so I reluctantly agreed. I could tell something was up before we got to her front door. She seemed excited and hurriedly pulled out her keys. I felt so small standing next to her, before I was always a good eight inches taller than her, and now I was four inches shorter. As she opened the door, she asked me if I wanted glass of wine or something else to drink, she said she was sorry, but she had just smoked the last of her pot. I told her that I didn't want.
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