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Between the Lines

No Peeking

I promised mysel I’d stay out of local politics once I moved up here to Sonoma County, California, but this story is too good to pass up.

It was 3 a.m., and the beautiful lady heard a rustling at her window.  Maybe it was the wind.  Had she left the window open?  She lay motionless in her bed, satin sheets sleek and cool against the heat of her body.  Am I dreaming? she wondered.

The room was dark except for slats of bluish light leaking in through the window blinds.  There was that rustling sound again—and the blinds moved!  She bolted straight up, automatically covering her breast with the innate modesty of a nice Catholic girl, and shivered in the sudden draft.  The window was opening—which clearly meant, she concluded as the last dreams fled her memory, someone was on the other side opening it.

The hand came through the slats—a brown hand, a hairy hand, a male hand.  That’s when she screamed.

The hand withdrew, and the window stood half-open for a moment before falling shut.  I’m not dreaming, she thought as she reached for the phone on the nightstand beside her.

The 911 operator was very nice.  She took down all the information: a man, in her bedroom, trying to get in.  A hand, a brown hand—that hand!

Now calm down, ma’am;...

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