The curtains drew on her gun, and shot down her thoughts that seemed to deepen her desire for the taste of his hips, the turn of his muscle, the kiss and taste of his tongue, one night that was caught breathless. The night had stolen blown kisses of her pleasures and hung thoughts of escapades with her lover in her head. Now the fault line between what could shake and rattle the crevasses, she began the craft "The Subjective" to deliver her account of the events. Or did you not know there happens to more than one version of the story.