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She flung open her closet and laid hands on the sweet, provocative dress she had been saving for the 4th of July, dressing as quickly and efficiently as a butcher whets his knife, and she checked against a full-length mirror the way that same butcher rests his blade against his thumb. Smart, chic, confident, the lady with pretty legs and immaculate white gloves. No man she passed failed to look after her.

I wish I could admire the fighter jets the way my son does. If they had more than one purpose, maybe I could, but their only function is killing and I've had a bellyful of that. They go through the sound barrier with a boom that makes me think the furnace has exploded. When they go over at night they get into my dreams and I awaken with a sad sick feeling as though my soul had an ulcer.