I was working late at my desk in my office Wednesday night. I guess I’d forgotten to lock the door behind me because, suddenly, I heard a noise. I turned around, regretting the fact that my gun was out of my reach on the far corner of my desk. Standing there, silhouetted against the light from the hall, was the most beautiful woman I could imagine. She was perfect: tall, shoulder length auburn hair, and the biggest, most beautiful lavender eyes I had ever seen – maybe the only lavender eyes I have ever seen. She had a figure that put Jean Harlow to shame.
I was staring down the barrel of .22 she held in her hand, and decided she would have been more beautiful without it. So I told her. It could have been that she didn’t appreciate my humor – because she broke into sobs, the gun hanging loosely in her hand. I moved quickly and grabbed the gun, emptied it, and set it on the desk behind me.