Flora Jones was thinking about Virginia Wishmonger again.

Virginia was a rude author with vast

spots and fat fingers.

Flora walked over to the window and reflected on her urban surroundings. She had always loved dirty
Dallas with its wicked, watery waters. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel jumpy.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a rude figure of Virginia
Wishmonger.

Flora gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a helpful, remarkable, wine drinker with
greasy spots and chubby fingers. Her friends saw her as an attractive, adorable author. Once, she had
even revived a dying, kitten.
But not even a helpful person who had once revived a dying, kitten, was prepared for what Virginia
had in store today.
The moon shone like hopping horses, making Flora irritable. Flora grabbed a solid kettle that had
been strewn nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.

As Flora stepped outside and Virginia came closer, she could see the sparkling glint in her eye.

"Look Flora," growled Virginia, with a considerate glare that reminded Flora of rude humming birds.
"It's not that I don't love you, but I want equality. You owe me 9251 gold pieces."
Flora looked back, even more irritable and still fingering the solid kettle. "Virginia, I admire your
eyebrows," she replied.

They looked at each other with relaxed feelings, like two hurt, heavy humming birds bopping at a
very wild holiday, which had classical music playing in the background and two lovable uncles
sleeping to the beat.

Flora regarded Virginia's vast spots and fat fingers. "I don't have the funds ..." she lied.
Virginia glared. "Do you want me to shove that solid kettle where the sun don't shine?"
Flora promptly remembered her helpful and remarkable values. "Actually, I do have the funds," she
admitted. She reached into her pockets. "Here's what I owe you."

Virginia looked stressed, her wallet blushing like a round, ripe record.

Then Virginia came inside for a nice glass of wine.

THE END