She locked her arms around her knees, praying to a God
she felt abandoned by.  And still the images were there,
just beneath the surface.  She stared at the motel room
wall, refusing to close her eyes, shivering in mute
misery, while the sting of his phantom kisses still burned
along her throat . . .


  . . . the truth is only as definite as the memory that records it.