spread--the--love

       At the end of my search there was a Frenchman named Claude.  He told me in a stiff tone (every word spoken in roundabout code) that his daughter could help me; she dabbled in this sort of thing, and she was good at what she did.  He left the bar before I did, directions to their little hovel hastily scrawled on a napkin left crumpled against my glass.  I finished the sludgy, bitter drink I had ordered, and wobbled back home to Kurt.       I told him, in whispered tones too low to be heard by anyone listening, about the girl.  I trembled as I spoke, my fingers dancing like twitchy spiders against his hip as I leaned in close.  He humo