And so his tenure as Vice-President of Sales at GreenAge Vendors ended;

Kip hadn't even planned on going to the GreenAge company dinner, but, at the urging of a very urgent Katrina, he decided it was better than the very cold shoulder of the alternative. He also did not plan to swear violently when his car bumped over the quivering body of a raccoon, an event that, additionally, he had not planned.

Neither had Kip meant to graze the left buttock of the President's wife during the company swing dance; she hadn't meant to mistake Kip for a rapist she'd seen on the news and scream bloody murder; the President hadn't meant to throw several punches (or at least hadn't meant to miss); and the pitcher of iced tea couldn't have possibly meant to spill all over the wall socket, starting the horrendous and destructive fire that would consume the entirety of GreenAge Headquarters by mid-evening.

Needless to say, Kipling Pilgrim considered himself lucky not to be charged with animal cruelty, sexual harassment, disturbing the peace, and arson, respectively.

Kezia recalled the story with a somewhat impish delight; her laugh grated slightly against Kip's insides, but her face soothed the small pains away. As she recited it to him, she grasped his hand at regular intervals, her voice becoming more gentle, her husk more of a coo, until the tiny tendrils beneath his cheeks released the red blotches of embarrassment.

The softest winds were bending the blades when the suns set, and Kip could smell the faintest odor of blood, carried warmly by a receding tidal zephyr; a drop of the sanguine in a sea that rushed to meet the ocean.