                           IN/OUT LAW
                      by Michael K. Smith


     I'll admit it up front: My younger brother, David, and I haven't gotten along since we
were in junior high. Since he's my only sibling, I've often felt more like an only child.
Nevertheless, when he got out of the service at the age of 22 and was job-hunting here in
Houston, Beth and I put him up for a couple of weeks. I suppose it allowed me to demonstrate
my economic superiority (an unworthy motive but mine own) and besides, our sofa-bed wasn't
*that* comfortable.
     A few days after David arrived, my wife's younger sister, Denise, came down for an
unexpected but welcome visit. She was twenty and still living under her parents' roof while she
worked and attended junior college -- but her folks often treated her like she was still fifteen, and
every so often she had to escape or risk popping an artery. I liked my sister-in-law and the two of
us had always gotten along well. An air mattress and a sleeping bag on the other side of our
living room took care of her sleeping arrangements.
     Beth and I found out later that David and Denise apparently had spent several nights
sitting up late, talking. They certainly hit it off because they started dating and were married
about a year later. I couldn't, for the life of me, understand what a nice, sweet, smart girl like
Denise saw in my oaf of a brother; as they say, there's no accounting for tastes.

                          *  *  *  *  *

     Cut to (almost) the present, twelve years later: I've been divorced for more than two years
and Beth has moved to California, "to find herself." I'm also living in a smaller apartment, but at
least Texas doesn't have alimony -- and we never had kids (which I regret) so there's no child
support to pay. David and Denise live in Atlanta with their two daughters, ages eleven and nine.
He's recently been promoted to regional manager for some kind of government contracting firm;
she seems to spend much of her time looking for ways to keep constructively busy.
     I haven't seen my brother in years (and have no desire to), but I keep in touch with Denise
and my nieces, whom I unabashedly adore. Denise calls every few weeks, usually just to chat and
to check on my bachelor-ite well-being. And Amy, the eleven-year-old, always clamors in the
background to talk to her Uncle Tom.
     Amy and her sister, Margaret, both write me long letters, too, filled with the latest news
about school and their soccer teams, and about the stupid boys who seem to be bothering them
lately. I reply with my latest adventures as a consulting engineer, which take me around the
country frequently.


     I hadn't actually seen Denise or the girls in person since before the divorce, so I was
pleased when I was offered a two-week job in Atlanta. When I called Denise to see if I could take
my nieces out somewhere for an afternoon reunion, I found my brother (a major) would be doing
his annual Army Reserve training that same two weeks. I immediately relaxed; I hadn't even
realized until that moment that I had tensed up at the prospect of having to deal with David. 
     "Why don't the three of us take *you* out on the town?" Denise suggested. "And the
guest room is ready and waiting."
     "No, Denise, I wasn't inviting myself in! I have an expense account--"
     "Then use it to buy the girls mocha almond ice cream. But I'm going to be very annoyed
at you if you stay at a hotel instead of with us! *Loudly* annoyed!" She made a silly growling
sound for emphasis.
     "Okay, okay -- I give!" I laughed.
     "Damn right," she said. "Besides -- seriously -- I've been wishing I could talk to you
about something. It's not the kind of thing I feel comfortable discussing over the phone." Her
tone had sobered and I wondered what the problem was. Well, she knew I'd help her any way I
could.


     Denise was right; staying with her and her daughters was much nicer than a hotel, and a
lot more fun. I could tell it was going to be a great visit when I wheeled the rental car into her
driveway that Sunday afternoon. I had called from the airport to get directions and to tell Denise
when to expect me -- and she had obviously told the girls, because both of them came pelting
across the lawn before I even had the car door open.
     Amy had grown so tall in three years I almost couldn't believe she was the same little girl.
Her long, billowing hair was very light brown, lighter even than her golden tan, and so fine it
floated on the slightest breeze. Her eyes were even bluer than her mother's, a deep, reflective
sapphire I hoped would stay with her through adolescence. I knew intuitively she was going to be
heartstoppingly beautiful in not too many more years. Just now, she was grinning like a Cheshire
Cat.
     "Uncle Tom!" she squealed as I bent (though not far) to give her a hug, and she locked
her arms around my neck. I got a large, sloppy, lip-smacking kiss on the cheek, accompanied by
a giggle.
     "Well, hello!" I replied. "But what did you do with little Amy? Last time I saw her, she
was only about knee-high!"
     "I'm growing up," she insisted. "I'm glad you could come see us, Uncle Tom." She
hugged me again.
     "So am I, honey." Why couldn't she have been *my* daughter? "And who's the gorgeous
redhead?" I indicated Margaret, who was standing shyly behind her sister.
     At six years old, the last time I had seen her, my younger niece had been a mass of
freckles and carrot-red curls. Her body was now beginning to sort itself out and it was obvious
that she was going to be dangerously cute by the time she was in high school. She was
proportionately shorter than Amy and her hair had turned a deeper auburn with matching
eyebrows. Her eyes were iridescent green and the freckles still scattered thickly across her nose
and cheekbones stood out sharply against her clear, porcelain complexion.
     "Margaret, do you remember me?" I hunkered down to get eye-to-eye with her. She
looked vaguely insulted.
     "Of course I do. You gave me WINNIE THE POOH and THE HOUSE AT POOH
CORNER for Christmas. I like Eeyore," she added with another shy smile. I was a little relieved
at the postscript; I thought for a moment I was being addressed by a small adult in a kid suit. This
one was going to have beauty *and* brains. Besides, I'm a sucker for redheads.
     "I beg your pardon, Miss. Do I still get a hug?" I gave her my most winning smile and
was rewarded with a much more tidy kiss on the other cheek. Instead of flinging her arms around
my neck, Margaret set her hands carefully on my shoulders. Then she seemed to realize that this
ladylike approach didn't qualify as a "hug" and clasped her hands at the back of my neck. She
gave me a grave smile, friendly but solemn. Her precocious self-possession was a bit unsettling. I
hugged her anyway, just as I had her sister, and stood as Denise caught up to her daughters and
greeted me with a dazzling smile.
     My first impression was that she had gotten younger in the past few years. She had never
been anything but slim, though two pregnancies had left her unavoidably thickened in places.
But now she seemed as slender and as fresh as when she was twenty. For years, she had worn her
hair short for convenience; now it hung in waves to her shoulderblades, a shimmering chestnut
brown in the Georgia sun.
     She wore a shining white scoop-necked spandex body suit under an old pair of jeans that
hung on her hips as if they were a size too large. She was also rather red in the face; it appeared
my sister-in-law had taken up aerobics.
     We hugged and patted each other's backs, but when I went to kiss her on the cheek she
startled me by preemptively kissing me solidly on the lips. I enjoyed it, of course, but still,... it
was unexpected.
     Denise hooked her arm through mine as we walked up to the front door. I carried my
duffel and the girls insisted on lugging my suit carrier between them. This was the first time I
had seen their house and I was impressed in spite of myself. It was a large, two-story place, four
bedrooms at least, with a red tile roof. The lot was probably three-quarters of an acre, with lots of
trees. There was a year-old Volvo station wagon in the drive, presumably Denise's. I hadn't
realized David was so prosperous and I had to struggle a bit to smother a twinge of envy.
     I looked sidelong at Denise's flushed profile and guessed she had been in the midst of
exercising when I arrived. Whatever program she was using to strip off her extra pounds had also
firmed up her muscles and flattened her stomach, and she had regained her trim form. Then she
caught me looking at her and raised an eyebrow.
     "Okay, ya got me," I laughed. "I was feasting my eyes, Denise -- you really look good."
     A few years ago, she would have blushed but now she looked pleased and gave my arm a
little squeeze. None of these apparent changes in her had come through in our telephone chats. I
wondered what else had changed.


     Amy and Margaret installed me upstairs in the guest room, just across the hall from the
master bedroom; their rooms were at the other end of the hall, which I imagined gave everyone a
little privacy.
     As Denise left me to unpack my stuff she said "Come over and watch me finish my
workout if you want. If I stop in the middle, I'll get more developed on one side than the other...."
     So I hung up my two sport coats and stepped across the hall. Denise had already shucked
her jeans and was lying on her back in front of the video player, ass in the air, doing bicycles
with her bare legs. She obviously didn't want to bother with tights at home. Her long hair was
spread in a puddle around her head and she was puffing rhythmically like a Lamaze student.
     I sat down astride the chair at her dressing table and leaned on my folded arms across the
back to watch. My sister-in-law has never been the glamorous sort but I've always considered her
very pretty. Watching her legs gleam with sweat as she pedaled her imaginary upside-down bike,
I had to admit she looked pretty sexy, too, for an old lady in her early 30s. And my eyes kept
wandering back to the snug crotch of her bodysuit, where I thought I saw a few light brown hairs
peeking out from beneath the spandex.
     When the woman on the video -- who wasn't even breathing hard, I noticed -- quit the
bicycle routine, the 'END OF SESSION' message came on and Denise's lower body hit the carpet
with a muffled thud. She was almost gasping and her face was bright red. I became concerned,
hopped up from the chair, and went over to kneel beside her sprawled body.
     "Hey -- are you okay?" She tried to laugh and nodded her head. As her respiration
slowed, I eased myself around to sit crosslegged. There was a hand towel on the floor nearby and
I picked it up and mopped her face and neck down to the edge of her neckline. She has rather
small breasts with no significant cleavage, so I decided I'd better stop where the material began.
     Denise smiled at me, still puffing a little, and raised her arm for assistance. I took it and
helped her into a sitting position; she locked her elbows and leaned back on her hands, her knees
drawn up neatly together. The pose pushed her shoulders forward and made her seem even
younger, somehow. I reached over and tucked her errant hair behind her ears.
     "I get carried away and do more of that stuff than I should," she said, her voice almost
normal. "It seems so easy when you're doing it -- but when you finally stop, you really pay for
it...." She reached out absently and patted my arm.
     "Um, Denise,... you said there was something you wanted to talk about...."
     Her expression shifted slightly and her face became more drawn. "Yes -- there is. And I'm
glad you're here, Tom. But let me figure out how to say what I want to say, okay?"
     "Of course; whenever you're ready, I'll be happy to listen. And to help, if I can." That got
me another squeeze on the arm. And then we were climbing to our feet, both of us unaccountably
embarrassed.


     We had a relaxed supper that first evening: Cold fried chicken (the best way) with
smashed potatoes (skins included) and peppery cream gravy of the sort every true Southerner
craves at least once a week. And, of course, huge glasses of iced tea, which Amy kept filled.
     Amy, in fact, nearly monopolized the conversation, which seemed to be okay with
Margaret. Her mother started to scold her but I insisted I wanted to hear everything she had to
say. Then I looked pointedly at Margaret and said tomorrow night's supper would be *her* turn.
Denise covered a smile with her hand.
     The girls cleared the table afterward and loaded everything in the dishwasher, then
headed into the family room to watch TV. Denise and I nursed our iced tea and talked quietly
about inconsequential things. I noticed that the subject of my brother never entered the
conversation, but I said nothing about it.
     And so to bed.


     The mattress in the guest room was newer and firmer than mine at home and I stretched
out in my boxer shorts with a comfortable crackle in my joints and fell asleep within minutes.
     I'm a notoriously light sleeper, however. If the noise of the air conditioner changes pitch,
I'll waken, quickly and completely. So, when my door opened silently an hour or two later, my
internal alarm system began prodding me to pay attention. I opened one eye halfway and saw a
slender figure standing uncertainly in the gray darkness just inside the door. Then it started to
leave again so I whispered, "Denise...?"
     She paused, then came back in and closed the door quietly behind her. She came and sat
slowly on the side of my bed, near the foot. I could see now that she was wearing a short,
crocheted nightgown. Her head was down, her face hidden by a curtain of hair, and her hands
clasped and unclasped in her lap. I heard a sniffle.
     I slipped out from beneath the sheet and moved down to sit silently beside her. She
seemed to shudder and I realized she had been crying and was trying hard not to resume. I wasn't
sure what to do, so I let my hand glide across the back of her shoulders and squeezed her arm
lightly. Comfort and reassurance was all I could offer so far.
     Denise raised her head and looked at me; the tear stains running down her cheeks
reflected what little light there was. I wiped them away with a forefinger -- and suddenly her face
was buried in my neck, her hands clutched at my back. I felt her body shake with stifled sobs.
I've never felt so helpless.
     I put my arms around her and stroked her head and simply held her for a few minutes
while she cried it out... whatever "it" was. I also felt a bit awkward, sitting there in my
underwear, holding a very attractive woman in my arms, especially when I became aware that
nothing separated our bodies except the thin nightgown. Each time her breasts shifted, my
attention focused on them. I was trying to help but my hormones kept getting in the way.
     Then she slowly sat up straight again and wiped her eyes and nose. She touched my
cheek gently with her fingertips and smiled her thanks. And then she was up and gone. The door
shut behind her and I lay down again and waited for sleep to return, but it never did.


     Denise was cheerful and laughing at breakfast the next morning and said nothing about
her nocturnal visit, so I didn't either. But I'm afraid my clients got shortchanged that first day: I
was tired from lack of sleep and distracted by concern for my sister-in-law.
     Amy was at a friend's house for supper and videos that evening, which put Margaret on
the spot. She was bright, thoughtful, polite, articulate when she had to be -- and very shy when
she was the center of attention. At nine, she was at least as knowledgeable as her older sister but
she preferred to let Amy front for her. Denise was an old hand at trying to get her youngest to
carry on a conversation (usually unsuccessfully) but, as a guest, I was able to play on my niece's
sense of duty as co-hostess.
     It was a struggle at first, but I discovered that asking Margaret a direct question and
letting it hang in the air forced her to reply, just to fill the uncomfortable dead space. I already
knew her abiding passion and ambitions centered on space exploration, so I made a passing
remark, painfully inaccurate, about the Mars lander; after giving her engineer-uncle an odd look
(shouldn't I know this stuff?), she carefully corrected me.
     I put on a puzzled frown and asked a follow-up question. She replied. Then she
volunteered an opinion, which I agreed with -- and before she knew it, she was deep in an actual
conversation. She really was a bright kid and, once the barrier was breached, a delight to sit and
talk with.
     When Margaret finally ran down and went out to the kitchen for ice cream, Denise got up
from the table and moved around behind my chair. I leaned back and looked up to see what she
was doing, and she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me on the forehead. Her long hair
brushed my ears and left a tingle behind.
     "Tom, I can't believe you did that. I've been trying to chip away at that child for years.
You're the sweetest guy I know. Thank you," she added softly and kissed me again before going
back to her seat. The spot on my forehead felt warm the rest of the evening.
     Tired as I was, I was in no hurry to go to bed, nor was Denise. When her daughter had
been tucked away, she came back into the living room carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.
I was stretched out in a big armchair. When she sat on the sofa and put down the glasses, she
smiled and crooked a finger, and I got up and moved over next to her.
     She poured us each a glass and, without looking at me, said "I don't know if I should
apologize for last night,... but I appreciate the use of your shoulder."
     "Anytime you need it," I replied, and picked up one of the glasses.
      "Well, then," she continued, "I guess I shouldn't put this off any longer." She flicked a
glance at my face and then studied her own glass.
     "Things aren't going too well, Tom," she began in a low voice. She unconsciously
touched her breast while she gathered her thoughts and I felt a sudden jolt: My God, did she have
breast cancer?
     "Denise-- Is this something... medical?" Jesus, that would be awful. But she gave me a
startled look and then, when she saw the concern in my eyes, comprehension dawned.
     "What? Oh-- Oh, no, Tom! No, it's nothing like that. God, I'm healthy as a horse." She
touched my hand and I was greatly relieved.
     "No. This is, um-- This has to do with my husband." Not "David" or "your brother": It
was "my husband." I sat back and waited.
     "He's..." She cleared her throat and took a long sip of wine. "He's cheating on me. With
another woman. She's a purchaser for the Defense Department or something. Can't be more than
twenty-five. Very attractive, the one time I saw her." She took another long sip and turned the
glass round and round in her hands.
     Could I have heard her right? My brother was a well-documented jerk, smarmy and
self-righteous, politically Neolithic, socially obtuse -- and proud of all his shortcomings. But I
would never have suspected something like this. A terrific wife and two fantastic kids; what
could he be thinking of?
     "Well,..." I had to respond somehow. "I guess it would be stupid to ask if you're sure
about this. Do you, uh, have any idea how long it's been going on?" Maybe it was just an idiot
weekend indiscretion, I thought. Not really an "affair" at all, maybe.
     She looked up and stared at me unblinkingly. "Almost two years. I found out about it
when some mail was misdelivered. And there were a couple of strange phone messages. So I
started snooping around and people told me things." She didn't elaborate but I had the impression
from her tone that she could document every infidelity that had occurred.
     I felt a pang of unaccountable guilt. Like I was responsible, just because he was my
brother. Like I should have smothered him in his sleep when we were kids.
     "Bastard," I muttered, and took another sip of wine. I didn't mean for her to hear that but
she did. A sad smile blinked on and off again. I took a deep breath.
     "Denise, tell me what I can do."
     She seemed relieved. Did she think I would defend my brother to her? Especially in
something like this? I wanted to hold her hand, do *something* to reassure her of my loyalty, but
she appeared to have herself under tight control and I didn't want to disturb that. This wasn't like
last night.
     "That's easy enough," she said, and tried unsuccessfully to laugh. "I have *no* idea what
I should do now. The *best* thing to do, I mean. I had to talk to somebody -- and for this, there's
really only you, Tom."
     I'm sure she meant it as a compliment but her apparent faith in my advice was a little
scary. "Should I confront him with it?" she continued. "Pretend I don't know and just put up with
it? Demand a divorce -- and then try to earn enough to support myself and the girls? Dammit, I
don't know!" Her mouth was trembling.
     "Denise, I'm not you; I can't tell you what you should do. But you already know about it
so you can't pretend you don't. You'd crack eventually and say or do something, and that might
make it worse in the long run."
     I was getting angrier the longer I thought about my brother's treasonous behavior. I
couldn't sit still so I got up and paced to the big fireplace and back. "If you're worried about
money, don't be. I do pretty well. I don't make as much as my shithead brother, obviously--" I
gestured at the big room around me. "--but it's more than enough."
     Without thinking, I went down on one knee so I could look my sister-in-law in the eye. I
took her hand and held it tighter than I meant to; she was regarding my agitation with some
surprise.
     "I care about those girls," I said urgently. "Denise, I *love* those girls. Anything you
ever need for them, ask. Anything *you* ever need, ask." That last was also unplanned, but I
discovered as I said it that I meant it.
     "When Beth and I got divorced, it was because we never should have gotten married in
the first place. The decree said 'irreconcilable differences' and that's what it was. Just a lot of stuff
that accumulated over too many years. I've always flirted with women I know and work with, but
it's all in fun and they know it and I know it; just a game. But I never, ever cheated on my wife.
I'm absolutely sure she didn't cheat on me, either," I admitted. Denise was nodding her head
slowly.
     "Denise, divorce is no fun at all. You saw us go through it. But in this kind of
situation,..." I suddenly noticed that my hand was shaking and I carefully released her fingers and
sat on the sofa again.
     I took another deep breath and tried to sound calm and objective. "I still can't tell you
what you should do. But I can't believe you want to go on living with him, sharing a bed with
him, knowing about this."
     Denise had already reached an inescapable decision, I think, but hadn't wanted to face it.
Now she did and her control crumbled. She continued to look at me but her mouth twisted
unhappily and the tears ran in streams down her cheeks. I felt awful.
     She made the smallest motion in my direction and I spread my arms and gathered her in.
She clasped her hands under her chin and sobbed softly, and I leaned back against the sofa and
held her and stroked her head. I returned her forehead kiss and tried to radiate support and love
through my fingers. It was like trying to comfort a grief-stricken widow.
     Then Denise pushed her hands up and around my neck and put her cheek against mine
and I squeezed her body gently. The tears tapered off and she kissed my cheek. And kissed it
again. Somehow, we were nose-to-nose and staring into each other's eyes. I had to kiss her, I
swear.
     She didn't protest or pull away. Her arms tightened around my neck and she kissed me
back, hard. It went on forever, I think. Thoughts crowded my mind that had never been there
before... or I had avoided recognizing them.
     My shirt was coming unbuttoned under her fingers, so I unbuttoned her blouse. My shirt
was off and I was unhooking her bra, which quickly joined my shirt on the sofa. We never broke
the kiss.
     My hands squeezed her breasts and one of us moaned, I don't know who. I had no idea
where we were going with this unexpected development but we were going there together. I
didn't want to think about what I was doing; some more primitive need had fused my mind to
hers.
     We stretched out on the sofa and she moved up my body until her lovely breasts filled my
view. I sucked in her pink nipples one at a time and she wound her fingers in my hair. We didn't
speak, not in words, but she encouraged me to continue, and I did.
     After awhile, we were kneeling on the floor and she was fumbling with my belt, my
zipper, pushing my trousers downward. I unfastened the side of her slacks. Then we were both
standing, just long enough to discard the rest of our clothing. And we were back on the floor,
lying on our sides, frantically grasping at each other.
     I tried to move her onto her back, but she resisted and pushed me back instead. And
moved quickly to straddle my hips. I understood, dimly, that Denise was asserting her decision to
do this thing with me.
     She lowered herself onto my quivering erection and I almost shouted with the pure,
undistilled pleasure her moist, capturing warmth produced in me. I clutched at her hips, tight and
smooth from exercise, and she pressed herself downward as far as she could, eyes screwed tight.
     Then we began to move in the ancient rhythm, slowly, gasping as nerve endings twanged,
speeding up a little at a time, until her hands were planted on either side of my head and her
breasts were jiggling against my collarbone. My hands roamed over her flanks and up her sides,
mapping the geography of her surging body.
     When she came, it was with her eyes wide open, staring into mine -- and I followed her
within seconds. Then she collapsed on top of me and her sweat mixed with mine as we began
another feverish kiss.


     Later, cuddled up on the sofa together -- more or less clothed, in case Margaret woke and
came downstairs -- we didn't try to explain or apologize. We could only accept what had
happened and try to fit it into the equation. Denise would file for divorce, that much we both
knew without it being discussed further.
     I stroked her cheek and wondered how I had missed recognizing my feelings for this
woman for so long. "They say two people in a crisis together are apt to fall in love," I said. "A
mutual defense thing, or something."
     Denise smiled at me in a way I had never seen before. "Does it matter?" No, I thought.
Not really.

                          *  *  *  *  *

     David at least had the good grace not to contest the divorce; in fact, the decree was
granted in absentia. I never learned the details, nor did I particularly want to know, but Denise
told her lawyer exactly what she knew and how she knew it. Her lawyer told his lawyer, and my
brother apparently decided to protect his career.
     Denise got custody of Amy and Margaret, of course, and took the house and the Volvo as
her share of the community property. David kept their extensive portfolio and volunteered a
generous child support. The house was on the market within a month and sold quickly, for a very
nice sum.
     Mother and daughters moved to Houston, where I helped them find a much less lavish
but quite acceptable house out in Katy, which has excellent schools. Denise was able to put down
nearly half the total price and most of the rest of her capital went into trust for the girls, for
college. A few weeks later, I gave up my apartment and moved in with them. Denise had gotten
the mortgage payments down so low, they were less than the rent I'd been paying.
     We slept separately for nearly a year, mostly to let the girls adjust to having me around all
the time -- but we found ourselves drifting into each other's beds so often it seemed a little
pointless.
     It was easier for Amy and Margaret than we had anticipated, but at least they had known
me all their lives. Even the last name was the same. I never pretended to be anything but their
uncle and their friend, and Denise explained very carefully why their father wouldn't be living
with them any longer. It took a year and more, but kids are adaptable and perceptive; they came
to understand that I loved them as much as their mother did.


     And now, it will be even better: After nearly three years of waiting, Denise and I will be
married next week. The second time for both of us, a strange dance of relationships between two
families, but it feels absolutely right. We've come to love each other very deeply, and Denise has
no more doubts about the depth of my feelings for her girls than they have.
     I'm looking forward eagerly to the ceremony, even though we've been living pretty much
as husband and wife all this time; it's the formal, legal recognition that I want, I guess. Amy and
Margaret, I'm happy to say, are almost as excited about the nuptials as I am.
     I know it's unlikely that Denise will want to attempt to have another child, hers and mine,
but that's probably for the best at this point in our lives. I don't mind at all being a surrogate
father to two kids as terrific as our girls. And it'll be great, having a family I can love.


                               END


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal
enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
