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It is that time of night in New York City when everything seems to fall silent and still. And on the sixteenth floor of the apartment building we live in, everything is even more silent and more still, the sounds bigblack tits from the street falling short of us. And it bigblack tits is also at this time of night, for reasons unbeknownst to the scientists, that strangers choose to enter peopleŐs homes unannounced and do evil things. It is during this pre-supper sance then that the stranger, who has decided against being detected in the elevator and has climbed sixteen flights, enters our apartment and silently, stealthily, creeps, quietly, whisperly behind my mother and waits. His presence my mother and I are unaware of. I have lied to you, reader. My motherŐs name is not Martha Harris. I have lied and I apologize for it. My motherŐs name is, in fact, Martha Finklestein.
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