It was no use, I couldn’t avoid her. Her hound-like nose in the shadow of the curtain never missed my returning home. When I opened the elevator door, the air was filled with Aunt Vica’s luscious curves. Invariably she’d come up: for her wallet, purse, or whatever it was she’d forgotten. The door closed and the jihad began. Melodramas woven with the cunning of a spider would grab me in webs …
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