know what I mean. Even if they are fifty-some years old and weigh three hundred and eighty-six pounds at five-two in their patterned stocking feet. Little did I suspect, though, that my very own aunt was carrying on with one of the guests of the Starlite Guest House. Come to think of it, I guess it is rather strange for Miss Fulvia Patton to have lived in the guest house all this time. She ought to have got an apartment with one of the other stenographers at the Petaltime Industries-or a husband. As feminine as she is.

Mr. Wolfe Jameson, the slick golf ball salesman from Dayton or Cincinnati, I forget which, once commented after dinner that Miss Fulvia Patton, complete with what I knew were powder puff bosoms, I won't tell how I found out, and, of all things, Evening in Paris perfume, had "the most delicate deltoids and the most succulent thighs" this side of Minneapolis. Coming from Mr. Wolfe, who is today known as the biggest cocksman on the golf ball circuit, that's quite a compliment. Oh, he was all the time trying to get her to go to Tiny's Tavern with him so he and she could drink draft beers and inhale the stale tavern air he loved so well. Only, as he put it, "We could indulge in the elixir of happiness and breathe freely in an atmosphere of liberality." Seemingly she was satisfied with the fifth of sherry behind her radiator and the relatively pure air that floated through her window.

Aunt Sarah Lou was the one who nearly every time ended up going to Tiny's with him. She could drink fourteen beers to his five, whether she had on her pink silk voile for special nights or her green cotton print for usual nights. She could out talk Murphy, the barkeeper, who eventually had to "go see Mrs. Murphy" and leave the small bar in her care momentarily, long before the gauntlet of Republicanism, Catholicism, Mississippi and Iowa, and, sometimes, Albert, had been run. Too bad Mr. Wolfe did not know the extent of usefulness of her advice to the lovelorn about Miss Fulvia; it lay just as inert and unused in the air, falling on dumb ears, as his latex prophylactic contraceptive devices lay inert and unused while he stayed at the Starlite. Also I think that it's too bad that Albert went away before Mr. Wolfe started staying with us. Mr. Wolfe has the truest of true pig eyes, a sort of slime green but not purely lifeless, and the kinkiest yellow hair you ever saw.

As to the indiscretion of Aunt Sarah Lou, though. I do guess I can tell you in confidence, for you are to be trusted, dear? As I said before, I'd never spread evil about my blood relatives. Anyway, just last night, last night, mind you, I had got up to run down to the bathroom. It was occupied at the moment. All the time I was hoping it would be, because I didn't have to go too bad and I needed an excuse to go downstairs to fix me a peanut butter sandwich. I get awful cravings for peanut butter sandwiches sometimes late at night, don't you? Well, I was halfway down the stairs. You'll notice they're carpeted nowcheap, thin carpet, but carpet, and a nice rose pattern. I guess they didn't hear me coming, for Aunt Sarah Lou and Miss Fulvia were having it out and some of Sarah Lou's words and expressions were so violent and abusive that I'll tell you, my dear, I wouldn't repeat them in your shell pink ear. Not on your life.

The door was ajar just enough for me to see Miss Fulvia on her big double bed there in the front bedroom that's been hers for two years now. She was surrounded; on one side there were two empty sherry bottles; on the other side there were about two dozen rumpled copies of those true love magazines she reads day and night when she's not at work or manicuring her cat-like nails; and-at the end of the bed-those three hundred and eighty-five pounds of Sarah Lou Birdsong seemed to tower. The contrast was tremendous. Sarah Lou,

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