She calls herself The Goddess Athena, but she’s always been Sarah Jane to me. On the road for weeks, she’s home at last. Needing to relax, she invites me over for tea.

I always feel I’ve stepped into a chintz-drenched fantasy when I visit. In layers of white lace taffeta, she fusses and chatters, plying me with sweets. In her bed, we giggle and touch like school girls discovering sex and ecstasy for the first time.

The next night, watching her strutting the stage, glistening muscles bulging in winner’s triumph, I marvel at the sheltering harbor each of us creates.

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