<div class="floatleft">(https://www.mediafire.com/convkey/76b7/x5nx8e3wrte3v7y6g.jpg)<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><div align="center"><strong> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Circe</span> </strong> <span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span><div align="center"></div></div></div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 11pt;">I hear before I see.  Then I see as I walk out of the kitchen.  I giggle at ‘Circumference’ with a dramatic, effective deep breath and sigh which lifts and displays, “We both know that’s not my name <strong>Michelangelo!</strong>” I hug Mike.   <br/><br/>“The batter’s chilling.”  I look at the two.  “Did it escape everyone’s attention that it’s the holidays?”  Apparently, it’s escaped their attention.  “That’s okay—we’re not exchanging presents now, right?”  “Porn holiday cookies, yes?  I can do them all myself, but (ahem) I might get the one I’ll name Mikey or Michelangelo with not quite an accurate anatomical depiction and then, . . .  no complaints of a shortfall.”  (Kiss).  <br/><br/>“Chloe, do you have food coloring and sprinkles?  You have powdered sugar since I left it here last time, that’s out already and very ready to go.”  (I’ve slowly taken over Chloe’s kitchen, but like to let her think she’s in control of it).       <br/><br/>I giggle and tug at Chloe’s arm, “If Michelangelo is in charge of his cookie design, how long do you think the third leg will be?” <br/><br/>I look back at the kitchen.  Everything is under control there, cookie batter is convenient that way.  The game being set up by Chloe is one thing, but what’s with the book?  “What’d you bring Mikey?” <br/></span>