Saloon Secrets

In my private locker—the mental vault where I bury my filthiest urges—I twist the lock tonight. Heart pounding. This one’s too hot to keep caged. It’s from that godforsaken saloon on the Colorado trail. Nights exploded with gringos belting ‘My mouse smiled at me in Missouri.’ Dominique, my French husband, hammered the piano. Beryl and…