THE KNAVE OF HEARTS PROVES THE QUEEN
OF HEARTS TRICKIER THAN EVER IMAGINED
This isn't one of your normal cases of repentance, one of your TV evangelists blubbering into his eyeglasses, Oh Lord Jesus King, and all of that. You know the bit: Do it, get caught, confess it, do it again. This case is stickier. First of all, she never came into the kitchen unless I was there so she could play on my weakness for metaphor. She'd deduced by the continuous articulation of my fingertips on the tabletop that the chambermaid was driving me crazy with her passion for facts: The 11:32 out of Hartford stops at Coscob, three teaspoons to a tablespoon, you know the rest. She was right. I wanted the royal treatment in the worst way. We backed the Mercedes out of the barn, headed for town. For the bright lights. We were doing sixty when all of a sudden she was shoving me out the door like fast food. I hit the dirt running, slid into home head first. The back wheels were waiting. Somewhere there's a catalog on disk brakes I'd like to reference, just to make sure. Backed over me twice, said she didn't feel anything, just something pip-popping like chicken bones, Oh God I can still taste the rubber do it again.