"I am not wearing socks, and I am sure they stink." She replies."Easily taken care of if you like. Why don't you go wash them really quick, and then c...me back here, the floor is clean, and they won't be very dirty from the sink to my desk. " I say. She looks at me again, and gives a slight nod. Walks away to what I hope is the washroom, to wash her feet. Coming back she sits down again across from me, and puts her feet up on my lap."Okay." Looking at me expectantly, and frightened a bit I take. " "I had the same kind of dream!" she tried to assure him. "But you, you're not a professional writer." "Well, you *didn't* write it. You're too good of a writer to have even tried. "I couldn't have gotten it on TV, anyway," he smiled, sitting up. "See what a smart husband I married," she smiled at him. "You stick with things that Richie and I can watch." "Like girls in skimpy costumes?" he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that fought off his post-nightmare creeps. "Girls in skimpy. He had killed two more of the illegal immigrants and one of their brats while waiting to leave. It was the only way to satiate the rage boiling through his mind. He wasn't worried about killing the illegals. His men brought several hundred or more across the border every day that he could choose from and there were a million more where they came from. Someplace in the recesses of his mind he did regret killing one of his own men when the rage became too much to manage and another illegal wasn't. Look, you have these two burning ambitions right?”“Yes, you know I do.”“And, if you don’t achieve either of them, or even if you only achieve one of them, how many people will die as a result?”“None,” she said, crestfallen.“So,” I continued, “it’s not a life ending tragedy if you don’t become a great opera star?”“I suppose not, no,” she agreed.“Then what if you do all the training, and spend a long career in the chorus of one of the world’s great opera houses? You’ll still be doing what you.