We pass this place where tall windows stick up around a wide
porch from those Victorian days where men with long cigars smoked, while inside
women displayed themselves like trophies, a place so notorious that angry wives
knew just where to go to collect their husbands, men who luckily knew the trick
how to get the big windows to open down so they could make their escape,
leaving naked women sprawled on couches still lingering on the edge of quick
romance, all these years later converted into a bed and breakfast, only
marginally haunted by those old ghosts, though in the dark of night, in the
rooms above, the bed posts still banged against walls and the sound of moaning
women can be heard downstairs, over the sound of waves crashing to the shore a
block away, nobody remembering the tricky windows, nobody trying to make a
quick escape, shaking the chandeliers the way an earthquake might, ending
finally with the cry of delight, as men make their way back down to the porch
to smoke cigars, history always managing to repeat itself
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