“She was loved by her boys. Their precious ‘little sister.’ They respected her. Protected her. And she, in turn, adored them. Because of this, she was never one of the gals included in the ribaldry. And their picaresque adventures always seemed to manifest around a shadowy figure she’d never met. A legendary rake named Wilt Willoughby. The tales they told of this man led her to consider him a complete buffoon. Falstaffian. Idiotic. Though she’d never met him, she found him entirely irksome. She rankled at the mere mention of his name. This low figure. On this particular day, following a long evening of debauchery, the boys rolled down the aisle into rehearsal, as if emerging from a clown car — screaming, laughing uproariously, and invoking the name of Willoughby. The producer, red faced and cigar in hand, exploded – silencing everyone in the theater. “Enough, boys, enough! I do not want to hear the name WILT WILLOUGHBY uttered in this sacred place again! A POX! It is ERASED! It is ERADICATED!’ And with that, she expunged the name Wilt Willoughby and everything she’d ever heard about him from her mental records. Which is how, when she came to finally meet him in person five years later, she saw him with clean eyes, without any recollection of his legendary rakish misdeeds. And that is how, one year after their first meeting, she would become Mrs. Wilt Willoughby.” 🧿

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