A gray-haired woman is in the laundry room.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Alarmed, you've grabbed her by the hair, pushing her into the wall near the closet doors.
Very calmly, with an air of amusement, she tells you she's come to look after your girlfriend, passed out unconscious in the bedroom.
"She used to live at my house," she tells you.
Her name is "KEL", which in this case is neither that of your long-lost best friend, nor that of the microphone manufacturer whose brand uses those initials.
"She's not what you think she is," she insists.
Testily and defensively you press her. "I don't want you saying bad things about her."
"For instance," she replies, "that she used to sit on my porch, offering blowjobs to passing men?"
You call her in. "Tell me who this woman is," you challenge her.
With a contrite look, frank yet with a hint of sly, she offers confession.
"There was a time in my life when I behaved with some self-indulgence. That's all behind me now."