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by Carol Schede

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Never, before that evening, had Annie Fogerty perched herself on a barstool and tried to attract a man. Nor, before that evening, had she dared spend a week's paycheck on a whispery, black scrap of a dress that barely grazed the tops of her thighs. She seldom drank. She hadn't smoked in fifteen years. Not since her dad caught her puffing away in her bedroom, then demanded that she finish the entire pack right there in front of him while he watched. And never, ever, before that momentous evening had she left home minus her underwear.

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