She really wasn't my type -- a hard-looking, untalented reporter for the
local cat-box line but the first second that that third-rate representative
of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense
said seventh heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth
Symphony, so, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming
for a physics exam, I swept her into my longing arms, and while humming The
Twelfth of Never, I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth....
