“…what song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture.” –Thomas Browne, Urn Burial
“A lot of nonsense about the bulls and the ears of corn, if you ask me,” she told Potiphar.
“No one is asking you,” he said, and made another mark upon the tablet he was using to tally his accounts.
“Well, they ought to,” she said. “I knew him when he wasn’t so esteemed, and before he’d gone into prison, though I hear I’m getting the blame for that one.”
Potiphar coughed slightly. “That was my fault, I’m afraid. I’d caught him with his hand in the jar, but that’s death for a scribe and he was a good worker aside from that. But I had to fire him, of course, and that was the first thing that came to mind.”
She punched him in the shoulder. “You jerk! That’s all you could think of? ‘He made a pass at my wife’? And you in the room the whole time? What did you think people were going to say?”
“Ow,” he said, and rubbed his shoulder. “Hey, I said I was sorry.”
“Your face is sorry,” she snapped, and stalked out of the room like the Queen of Sheba.