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Monique had told me her height, but it had never quite registered, and I am bad with numbers anyway.(In my written self-portrait, that translated into "concerned with quality rather than quantity.") She knew, however, that the way into the heart of a Taurus is through his belly.It all began with an ad — in the Dark Ages before internet dating.

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We stopped at Susan Butcher's place, and the famous musher welcomed us from her backyard.

Leaning on the rails of the big white riverboat, we watched Susan's handler race her Iditarod-winning team.

As a safety precaution against love-crazed stalkers, crank calls or bomb threats from jealous exes or current boyfriends, I had my phone number unlisted and rented a mailbox at the post office in town. A lonely sounding fisherwoman trawling off the coast of South Africa cast her net wide and wrote to me on yellow legal-pad paper. Monique was a French woman living in Albuquerque, a lover of literature and a painter.

(Paranoid was not one of the character traits I had cared to mention in my sales pitch.) As it turned out, the readership was rather diverse and not at all limited to the contiguous United States. She had divorced her husband, a former salvage diver, when he turned into a couch potato. When she finally walked through the gate at the Fairbanks airport, my heart danced a little jig.

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