“Shery Beneavou, Sir. 24, in years. 24 years in flux. Kind hearted, with a gentle disposition and a tasteful genetic make-up. Ideal girl. She’d come home with flowers and chocolates. Balm to a tiring day. Rosemary pink in spring, sky blue in the summer. A-liners, halters and racer-backs. The usual girl. Movies and popcorn, apple tarts and cheesecakes with berries on top. A vague girl. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I pray you, but make an allowance for me to call her a floating paradox. A paradox of conceptions. A genuine, but ridiculous nevertheless, idealist. A cat in a bucket of water. It’s true, sir! A gnawing cat. A pretty combination, a doleful combination… Insurgent. Like a queer wave on a low tide day. By Jesus, the heroic misery in her voice! Carefully crafted stories of pittance. Careful, but flawed, sir. I could read them all. I could read her. Nothing in there. Stories give her purpose. Pardon me, sir, but these stories she weaves for purpose. For recreation