Later he would say: I met you in a whorehouse. Or was it at an all-night poker game. I met you in a bookstore, Kitty would remind him. In a bookstore? Impossible. I never set foot in bookstores. You’re the one who likes to read, not me. You’re the one who told me you spent your childhood in an apple tree, hidden by leaves, turning the pages. One leafy afternoon . . . you told me. Do you remember? Kitty nodded. But I still met you in a bookstore. I was seated in the corner on a three-legged stool. Reading a book. What nonsense. I found you in a bordello. You were only fourteen. Thirty-two. Then you lied about your age, you strumpet. How can I have anything to do with you? You monster, she murmured, tugging at his hair. He had always to find the better story.

Reprinted from War Story by Gwen Edelman by permission of Riverhead, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2001 by Gwen Edelman. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.