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    Love All, Rose
    Love All, Rose
    Love All, Rose
    Ebook328 pages4 hours

    Love All, Rose

    By Rose Maru

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    About this ebook

    Just when you thought it was safe to venture back out on the court, you hear the commotion from nearby: "What? Since when is tennis not played shirts versus skins?" - of course, mixed doubles was probably the absolute worst time to discover this little tidbit.

    Mixed up with the tennis shorts and skorts are the usual grab-bag of fiction, fantasy, and oh-no reality. All served up to you in a handy-dandy collection with which to score. I mean, like in tennis. Not score with the opposite sex. Even when you say the score is "Love," it doesn't necessarily mean you have to even like your partner. I mean opponent. And it certainly doesn't mean you have to wipe your face after every sweaty encounter... with your shirt... when you accidentally forget how aggressive you can get in wiping everything down how you yank up way too far when you don't wear what I don't wear under my t-shirts... but happen to have a pair of, uh, let's call them somewhat bigger than a set of tennis balls... maybe a lot bigger than tennis balls... but they're still out there on the court... and, well, because I just yanked up my shirt to wipe down my face, they're OUT on the court.
    Wait, I mean, "Hey! Check out the table of contents!" (and just shut the heck up, Rosie!)
    Table of Contents
    Love All Intro
    - Fiction
    Slippery Slope
    Finding Religion
    Granny Hood
    Auction Ring Princess
    -Gray Zone
    Tennis Top Intervention
    -Non-Fiction
    Butt Shower
    Mom
    Sunscreen
    Doorbell
    Disconnect (Wee Willy Wetness - Split-roast Personality)
    Toy Review
    Eclipse
    Q&A with Rose, Session 7
    Love All Conclusion
    Is it me, or with time is my non-fiction sections of these sordid tales getting bigger? I bet those suckers were just misclassified. That's gotta be it.
    So let me serve up a copy of this little tome for you, just click it, stick it, and let's get on with the game: "Love All, Rose" (and don't double fault just because I have the bad habit of swaying back and forth while crouched in a ready position to receive whatever you give me. On a serve, I mean.)
    (And I completely disavow knowledge concerning the 'About the Author' picture. Which, for the record, I do _not_ do that during _every_ tennis match, dammit! (Only the ones where I'm behind.))

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRose Maru
    Release dateAug 1, 2018
    ISBN9780463418918
    Love All, Rose
    Author

    Rose Maru

    Born a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... no, wait, that wasn't me, but sometimes it certainly seems like it.Before getting into all the fun details, I want to clear the air of a rather large aspect of my writing because it has a huge impact on my work: I have HSDS (Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome). In fact, if it weren't for my HSDS, I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be there reading this - my previously unpublished writings were explorations into kick-starting my, ahem, 'motor.' I tried to explore anything that might cause a little tingle below, even ideas and concepts my thinking brain refused to hear. Creating an alter-ego in my stories allowed me to safely penetrate the veil of non-existence - I was forced to think about sexy thoughts and situations.I wrote for years covering a wide range of topics, my husband providing a large number of seedlings from which to grow my stories (HSDS... what do you expect? Much to my dismay, what I learned to expect was very raunchy pillow-talk. Much to his dismay, he learned to expect me to leap from bed saying, "Oh! That is so good, I've got to write it down!"). It turns out, writing romantic erotica usually wasn't doing it for me. I gave up on it for a period of time - in essence, I gave up trying to help myself, as well.Then my significant's bright idea: if it didn't help me, maybe it would help someone else. I was back to writing again, or more correctly, preparing my work for release unto an unsuspecting public (I have now officially absolved myself from any evil that befalls you after reading my books - it's all his fault). So I dredged up my folder of rough and unpolished stories - damn, I wrote this much? No wonder I wasn't having sex, I was busy writing about it. (Fib alert: so not true it's not funny. Not the 'not having sex' part, but the lack of bedroom action wasn't really due to my writing.)An odd thing happened, though, as I was rereading my material and editing it. I felt a little something that I hadn't experienced in a long time. I actually felt a little tingle from down below. That soft little call, while editing some stories, started to get a little louder - still very quiet, but it was most certainly there where it hadn't been for decades. I gave in to the siren call almost immediately - surprised the hell out of my husband (thank goodness it wasn't the UPS guy at the door during those moments). Complete, spontaneous, due-to-my-doing rumpy-bumpy. Holy humper, Batman, I'm fixed!I wish. It disappeared again, just as easily slipping back into my 'normal abnormal' routine of never thinking about it within hours. Back to editing. Being the patient sort, I allowed myself to edit a whole three paragraphs before anguish sets in, "It's not working! Ah! I'm broken forever!" Luckily, I have a never say die attitude (Fib alert: ... no, wait, this isn't my stories where I have to include a 'truth' section - let me have my freaking moment), and said, "Piss on it, I'm still going to release my work. I've come this far."And so it went - although much to my joy (and my hubby's) - every so often, I'd find myself showing such obvious responses to passages, it was apparent to even an HSDS girl - and we'd make joy (sometimes several times) to the situation. I wasn't fixed, but at least I had a crutch.Which leaves me editing my old material, exploring new, and tormenting you with it - where I hope it does you some good, too. If it can't make you happy that way, I hope it'll at least provide you a little laugh the other way - especially since I do provide a 'Truth and Consequences' side to all my stories at the end of each book where I detail the nitty-gritty and harsh reality of every piece. This allows everyone's inner voyeur to be released because my HSDS does a great job of preventing me from grasping 'TMI,' so I tend to spill my guts back there in my books.As for my bio (side note: doesn't that make it an 'auto-bio?'), I'm a cute, twenty-one year-old (Fib Alert! Oh my Lord! If you're writing fantasy-fiction, at least make it believable!) - crap, okay, fine, I'm old enough to probably be your sister - from a second marriage - so we're not blood related, which means you don't have to get all weirded out about reading sex stuff about me) - and I live in the Pacific Northwest where I am still happily married to my first husband (very funny - he edits my other fibs so I have to tell the truth, but leaves the happily married one)... at least until he reads the final published product where I changed the truth section in every book back to being brutally honest contrary to his corrections.And, yes, that is me on the cover of all my books, but I'm not spilling the beans here, you have to read the book.

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      Book preview

      Love All, Rose - Rose Maru

      :Table of Contents: ( Alphabetical TOC - By Topic TOC )

      : Linear TOC : (Play from Love All to Game, Set, Match)

      Introduction

      Finding Religion

      Auction Ring Princess

      Slippery Slope

      Little Blue-Balling Hood

      Intervention, Operation Tennis Top

      Mom

      Out of Bounds: the Daily Hazards of Being Rose

      - Sunscreen Screw-Up

      - Doorbell Ding-A-Ling

      - Disconnect (Wee Willy Wetness - Split-roast Personality)

      Butt Shower

      Toy Review

      Question and Answer Session 7

      Eclipse

      Conclusion

      - Master Index -

      Truth and Consequences

      -Other Works-

      Raindrops on Roses:

      - Art Director

      Rose by Any Other Name:

      - Bath Time

      - Braless is Better

      Dozen Roses:

      - Bigfoot

      Coming Up Roses:

      - Bigger Brother Cover Shoot

      - Q&A with Rose (excerpt)

      Rose Garden: My Life with HSDS:

      - Introduction to HSDS

      - HSDS 2014 Redoubt (From Raindrops on Roses)

      - "Treatment" Trial

      - Q&A #2 with Rose (HSDS Topics) (excerpt)

      Rose Wood At Home:

      - RA Rose

      Wars of Roses:

      - "She's Shed, Gym (Special Love All" sample! It involves tennis!)

      Real Randy Rose:

      - Hide and Go-Kiss

      Buns 'n Roses:

      - Take Two

      Covering Rose:

      - Raindrops on Roses Cover

      Climbing Rose:

      - Yard Work Handy Helpers

      Chains - Stand Alone Novel (currently banned from most distribution channels)

      Dare to Bare:

      - How to Contribute

      - Comfort Zone

      Rose Art - Also banned from almost all major outlets

      Soul Service, Inc. (Excerpt)

      Parade of Roses (the grand master index of Rose kink)

      - - - -

      About Rose C. Maru

      Contact Information

      - - - -

      Love All, Rose

      0-0, Love All.

      Actually not redundant at all. Each side has zero sets won and the current game is about to start Love-Love, no points to either side until the serve.

      Even after a game is won, or lost, the next one starts again, everyone with love: Love All.

      Tennis is a pretty neat game, and not a shabby metaphor sometimes. Even after you lose a point, even several points, there's still Love to look forward to. Another chance to win it all.

      Of course, a pessimist in the group would also point out: even after seeming to win a game - even an entire set - you're a winner now, right? Nope. Next set (series of points) starts back at ground zero... but it still starts with Love for everyone.

      Which I guess is good, because it means even though I may kick serious butt, beating him after some close calls and losing too many points to dumb mistakes - in the end, no matter what the set score is - until the entire match is done - the next game starts with Love.

      Even after we're off the courts completely, showered and clean, amazed we got to play tennis during a near total eclipse of the sun - making everything darken (pausing the game), yet the sun came out again for a great game... I could still manage to lose: HSDS (Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome) is still with me. And while there may be tears and curses with the lost game (of missed opportunity, yet again, to provide him a roll-in-the-hay) - at least we can still look forward to starting again, with Love All.

      Another chance to win.

      Welcome to my latest collection of short stories, lurid confessions, and that misty-musty area between reality and fantasy life - which slips way too often into non-fiction.

      So adjust your balls to a comfortable position, and serve it up for another game... Love All.

      - - - -

      Truth - Table of Contents

      - - - -

      Finding Religion

      College: a small-town kid's wake-up call to the weird, the wacky... and the wasted.

      I'd never really thought about it when I first arrived, just noted it was odd that Sunday services were offered as a Sunday Night Mass. Soon it became abundantly clear, the Lord works in mysterious ways, because Sunday night, they'd catch all the college kids deciding between church and study. The lesser of two evils - plus, when that inevitable call to the parents would come later that night (you know the one - to verify you were home and not in jail... or at least safe and ready for another week of hard work hitting the books (and not the bottle)), you could honestly say you went to church. Even pass the all-to-common discussion about the homily and how it might've pertained to the readings (damn! Do they match up all the church's readings just so your parents could test you on it, no matter what part of the world you tried to hide after leaving for college?). Church attendance: a win-win situation for all involved.

      Of course, there was still a problem: even on a Sunday night, in a college town, just how many young altar boys do you think are hanging around to help with services? Yeah, I never thought about it either. Until the call went out before service starts:

      Any of you folks ever hold the position of altar server?

      I nervously look around at the ninety percent female population inhabiting the pews - which I'd later find out were mostly non-Catholic. Surely out of these twenty or thirty souls, someone would...

      Well, they always talk about a calling - and apparently I had to heed mine. Having grown up in a small town, gender mattered not for altar boy. I'd served for almost an entire decade as such. In fact, if not every Sunday mass, at least every other with lack of alternates in our congregation.

      I barely had my hand off my lap before I find myself being escorted efficiently into the back and dropped into appropriate robe. Snap of the corded ties, and my younger years and training kick in.

      And I had to admit, it was sort of nice, after being just another face in the crowd sitting through all these huge college lecture halls of hundreds, to get one-on-one attention. I mean, college life is tough, even more so when a single biology lecture is seating more students than the population of your entire town growing up.

      So I was thankful for my younger years serving the hand of God. And it didn't hurt the young priest at the helm of this mighty ship of service was just a little too easy on the eyes. But, well, mostly because I mattered. I was needed. I was noticed. I was trying to think of all the important reasons... other than his beautiful blue eyes while I was up there helping him out on the altar. Because that's not what I was noticing. I'm pretty sure.

      Sure I had to brush up on some of the local technical details - but it was all easy and only took minor adjustments. Not the least of which was my new-found height and other protrusions. So figuring out his particular idiosyncrasies and patterns was a pleasant diversion. And, like I said, it didn't hurt he was young and cute - and paying attention to me.

      Practically my first Sunday evening debut all alone up there with him - and I botch it.

      He practically flicks my nipple while reaching for the book - the prayer book - that I had held nearly in the same place just moments before out in front of my chest for him to read the prayer from - just before I got nervous standing up there in front of everyone and my brain short-circuits back to my eight-year-old self. My short younger self. And appropriately, arm muscles contract to lift the book up so I would stare at the cover - because that's where I saw it through many a Let us pray. Except now, standing at 5'8, instead of 4'1...

      We both flinch. No one else seems to notice. I lower the book back to appropriate level. I swear, he's flushed red. And for some reason, I'm not. Maybe I'm just letting him be embarrassed for the both of us - especially since it was my fault. Actually my shorter self's fault, reverting back to the last time I stood face-to-face with the vassal of God.

      Only last time, God didn't wear such a handsome face. And certainly not such a blushing red face. The faintest hint of a smile lingers unfortunately across my own continence as I fight not to smirk at the hilarity of it all. Amazed that becoming a college student could pack with it such confidence to smile in the face of adversity. To know I now poked out visibly through three layers of fabric, but still proud and... freaking out completely inside, amid prayers of thanks that I was facing away from the congregation in my now prominent little points of glory. Thank the good Lord!

      It did mean I wasn't surprised when I was called very soon afterward in to meet with the good pastor for an awkward conversation... for him.

      For me? Oddly enough, no big deal. He was cute; he was young; I was away from home for the first time... and dateless for far too long - while all my friends were getting tons of action by the breathless conversations I'd hear.

      We have to talk about inappropriate touching, he breaks the silence after several minutes of me being seated in his office, directly across from him.

      I swear, it wasn't me that said, You mean, like this? as I take hold of his hand and plant it right on my boob.

      He blushes bright red. But I can't miss the unmistakable squeeze to my lonesome chest.

      Visible gulp, Yes, that would be one, he can almost say it without his voice cracking. I don't miss the fact his hand has remained in place.

      But this is okay? and I slide his hand between the furrows of my breasts.

      Well, uh, I guess, he stammers.

      So, how far over is too far? I ask, looking into those heavenly eyes, which I notice haven't strayed from my attention seekers.

      He starts sliding his hand, I can't tell, he says quietly.

      I pull it back down - directly on target - as my answer.

      Probably there, his voice goes up a little.

      So we should be sure, I somehow say way more confidently than I feel as I pop the top three buttons on my thin, silky blouse, and slide his trembling hand below the surface.

      His answer is lost in the silent luxury of my shallow breath, forcing a rise-and-fall to my soft mounds. Oh, oops - laundry day is Monday - I forgot all my bras were dirty and in the hamper. Pity.

      Is it easier to tell now? Because my nipples are feeling a lot from this side, I feel guilty for the giant smile that won't leave my lips.

      His warm hand slides down along my soft, yielding flesh until he confirms my affirmation in a glorious rolling sensation between his thumb and finger - a lot like a nice, plump rosary bead, I presume.

      And I'm responding. Way the hell responding. And no longer thinking, apparently, because I slide close to him and feel the heat rolling off his body, washing over my own.

      But I'm sure there's other inappropriate areas, right? I ask, warm and hopeful.

      Yes, like... like your...

      Taking his other hand, leaving his lusciously wonderful first hot hand upon my breast, we lift my mid-thigh skirt with an upward sweep. Oops - I probably should've worn panties, too. Damn dirty laundry - forgot the bra, forgot the panties - damn it all if the devil's in the details, I guess.

      We plant him directly over my throbbing and readily swelling sex. My folds blossom and bloom for his tender touch.

      Yes. This, he confirms breathlessly.

      Not quite, my equally urgent shallow pant quickens as I shift him to the side with gentle pressure on his fingers, aligning perfectly with my engorged clitoral hood and tense shaft below. An involuntary intake of my breath, and taut tummy muscles contract, curving my hips forward - a mysterious malady contracts my fingers in a partial curl - and he pops into my holy land.

      Licking my lips, trying to catch my breath, That's it, I try to say.

      And my hips rotate of their own accord, in small, heavenly sweeps, gently rolling my clit below his firm finger massaging my hedonistically wet entrance before forcing him to receive another baptismal dunking within my fount.

      Before we know it, I'm sitting on his lap, my legs astride, grinding down into his lap, properly filling me with appropriate God-given member. I slide up and down his staff in urgent thrusts, fire and fury build between my legs.

      His strong, muscular arm wraps around my waist, with continued clitoral massage and mashing down in alternating fashion along with his driving penetrations, pushing me to sacred heights.

      He continues to minister to my tingling breasts with opposite hand and devote tongue, deep draws between lusciously hungry lips, sucking my whole body into knots and spasms.

      I contract down in hard, urgent orgasmic climax, grinding deeply into his body, eliciting his own joyfully divine experience and release.

      Cleaning up afterward, I make sure he knows I may not have completely understood all the finer details - we should probably plan on another 'refresher' session. Soon.

      Not long after, he left official service. It would seem he found another calling. Of course, it doesn't mean he can't return later, after some further and deeper explorations. Repeated. Numerous times. In more ways, shapes, and forms than either of us thought imaginable.

      Oddly enough, to return as a deacon years later.

      Heck, it's never too late to heed your true calling - as long as he doesn't forget to heed mine in between... sometimes twice.

      - - - -

      Truth - Table of Contents

      - - - -

      Auction Ring Princess

      But, Tim! I get filthy! It's a pain to clean!

      Then we'll buy you several, but wear the white one, he insists.

      Seriously? You'll provide it, like a uniform? Are you nuts? I beg to differ with his opinion, even if he is the top grossing auction house in the quad-county area.

      Better yet - I'll get them for you. You'll just have to change here. When your shift is done, leave 'em and we'll have 'em laundered. Okay?

      You're nuts. Sorry, I know I'm not supposed to tell my boss that, but...

      You've got lots of cut-offs, though, right? I don't have to provide tho...

      Seriously?! Dirt and shit get down inside my boots; you know what that does by the end of the day being ground into my...

      End of summer season, we pop for a new pair of boots, too.

      These are hand-worked elk skin, I remind him I'm not some city-dork that thinks leather is leather.

      Shit. Never mind - I'll get you work boots, he proves he's not completely insane.

      But, yeah, I have more than enough cut-offs - although, you've seen some of them... they're threadbare - practically barely there, they're so worn out - won't it reflect badly upon your...

      All the better, he cuts off my sentence as I try to live up to the big name on the side of the building that's supposed to mean quality and trust.

      So, let me get this straight: I show up in shorts - my ratty-wash-the-horses cut-offs - and whatever else, because I'll change into a work shirt and boots here? I'm just lost.

      Next Tuesday... I have to run into the city to get the shirts and boots this Sunday. If you'll ride along with the wife and me, we can be sure everything fits, he confirms.

      I'll have to ask my dad.

      Right. An hour after church?

      Sure.

      At least tonight will be the last time I have to wash my white button-up shirt and jeans - I can't believe my luck. Employer provided shirt and boots. Now that's cool. Still sort of fries me, because working in shorts can be a pain. Although at least now I can quit worrying about patching up pants after wearing them out - skin? What's another few scrapes and scars - at least I don't have to replace pants any more. Guess it's good.

      What? You might think St. Mac just magically finds rolls of ground beef to process into those fake hamburgers you buy in the city, but actually it's a lot more involved than what you think.

      In small towns all across the west, livestock is brought through the local and regional auction houses. All walks of life, from cattle and horses down to those damn sheep pass through various gates to the auction ring, then back out to staging pens, before load-and-go.

      Moving the beasts into the ring before the buyers, who are sitting up in the bleacher style seating, is an action-packed job that's relatively easy compared to working on the family farm - so of course when you get home back from college on break, it's the first place you try to land a job. I'd never been able to do it until this year - first time ever - and somewhat unusual for a girl to be hired.

      College did teach me something, though - for a woman to break into a new field, sometimes you have to prove you can do the job. I figured I could waste a week... I offered to work for free the first week, but when they hired me the second week, I'd not only get back pay, but a $50 bonus. Tim, the owner of the area's largest livestock auction thought he'd just get a week of free labor because girls can't hack it - I thought I had a fifty-fifty shot of landing the job.

      Even though I was smaller and not as strong as the usual college cowboy home for the summer, I figured I could work smarter, and the horses and cattle, especially, responded well to me - meaning they'd move faster and more efficiently with a woman's touch. Oh, hell yeah, I still beat the shit out of some of them, but not nearly as much as the heavy-handed, prove-you're-a-man boys. Sorry to ruin any dreams you have of pretty, well-groomed cows with bows and ribbons in their tails prancing happily about - these are meat animals, folks. Yes, we try to be as humane as possible, but you still have to get 'em in and move 'em out.

      My first day working the ring pens, a funny thing happened: there was a small, but noticeable bump in gross take for the day. Deep down I really wanted to believe I was right - by being gentle, more quiet, less intimidating, I was moving critters in quicker, having them stand and group more efficiently and in better position to get higher prices. You have to remember, just a couple pennies a pound really adds up - so if they're not all tense and looking scared and scrawny, there was a chance the very well-trained buyers (bidders) would be seeing more muscle weight and higher cutting percentages - all mean more money for their employer and bigger bonuses for them.

      The second day, they let me run in even more through the actual ring. This wasn't a single day blip: this was a real, even more apparent bump up the income ladder. Maybe I was just getting more head through, I don't know - don't care. It was all ammunition for my sales pitch: you have to hire me.

      Fourth day I stopped wearing a bra - it was freaking hot in the pens - more than I ever expected - and I was sweating through everything I had. Plus, I'd discovered that bits of straw and hair would embed into the cups and somehow work themselves like acupuncture needles into my freaking areolas. Not cool. I have my own infected hair bumps to deal with from shaving down below, I don't need them on my boobs, too. At some point during summer break, I swore I was going to get me a boyfriend - and red bumps around my nips weren't likely to increase my odds of success in keeping him around... and I was planning on finding out what all the fuss was about such things this summer.

      Unfortunately by the end of the week, I'd run out of work clothes. I had to wear cut-offs and a white button-up. Because the animals were more calm around me, I'd noticed I wasn't getting all that beat-up or dirty anyway; I figured when I nail the job, I could buy some more regular plaid work shirts. Plus, bleach the hell out of the white one and it'd probably come clean.

      By the end of the day, there was no doubt about it... that's no blip in sales, it's a blimp. And the only major change was me working the ring. Hot damn.

      I didn't even have to approach him with my sales pitch with the numbers I'd grabbed from the accounting desk before going into his office. College training: always be prepared when you're ready to see a prof or someone in charge.

      Before I could finish shutting his office door, he was handing me my bonus check and held out his hand... the West: no contract is better than a handshake. I had the job.

      And that's why I was now waiting on the porch after Sunday services, for my first all-expense paid shopping trip to the city.

      Good to his word, he got me a half-dozen white work shirts. Goofy as hell, though, he had handed me a mix of black and dark blue ones when we got there to try on to find my size. I thought he'd got half-a-clue and changed his mind until showing up for work and finding all white ones. Eh, so much for intelligence. I guess that joke is right about the guy being held up in the big city of New York: A hulking huge dude pulls a gun on a little scrawny guy, Give me all your cash or I blow your brains out! Little scrawny dude, Blow away - this is New York City, you can live without brains, but you can't live without money. Or something like that - I just knew it proved smart people aren't necessarily good businessmen.

      At least, if he got the same line of shirts I tried on, he wasn't that smart. They were much thinner than the typical plaid shirt... Thank goodness - maybe he had a little smarts - it'd keep me more comfortable hustling in and out of the ring all day with the thinner material.

      Sure the boots were only cowhide leather, but still, free boots are cool. I mean, out here in the real rural parts, everyone knows average boots start at $150, with $200 being more realistic - so he didn't even bat an eye when I found a sale pair - thank God for small feet and freakishly small shoe size that no one else has! - for $165 - and they were like 60% off! Pretty freaking soft for standard cow leather with roper heel and more than enough cushion to keep me on my feet for the whole day.

      Tuesday morning with the sunrise, I find myself in the make-shift locker room stowing my boots and shirt, slipping into a white you've-got-to-be-kidding this-will-be-trashed-by-the-end-of-the-day button-up. Crap - it's cold this morning. I rush putting my new work boots on to double-time out to be in the corrals where it's warmer. Even if there had been a mirror in there, I wouldn't have taken the time to check out my uniform.

      And the house's gross was a solid five percent over average when they tallied the day.

      Other weirdness: my lots really were garnering more bidding, and more active bidding - albeit in smaller increments, but still ending up higher. Plus, instead of standard auction house daily bell-curve profit where the middle of the run is the highest, it was the first hour and last third of my day that the accountant swore was my best.

      I'll hand it to him, though, he was wonderful, that blessed accountant, taking a ton of time at the end of most days to go over things with me, in as much detail as I wanted to hear. Unfortunately, he worked in a freakishly cold office and I was always in such a rush to catch him, I never risked changing out of my uniform before

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