Issue 165, Spring 2003
No one knew her real name, but she appeared to be Greek.
She posed nude for painters, when she could find them.
She could slap hard enough to draw blood.
She slept around.
She was not one of those women who behave like cats,
jumping into your lap when you sit down to read.
Ignore her, and she ignored you.
Yet she was jealous. She would wound.
She dressed in classical rags, shawls and hobble skirts, the
shot-silk cloak and snood.
She spoke many languages and was not interested in
disguising her intelligence.
Incense-laden atmosphere drove her wild. She loved the
pagan remains of festivals and insisted on visiting
Although she had no compunction about lying, as a character
witness she was useless: she had substance-abuse problems
and no known address.