Two's a Crowd	Back to O	Back to main page

Collected by Djian
updated dec 22 - 2008

Another story by angiquesophie

M/f cons cheat

1 | 2 |

Two's a Crowd
by angiquesophie

angique (at) hotmail.com

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He should have been at the annual reunion of his old college frat house, two states over. But he wasn't. He was here and he saw her. At the same time he couldn't believe it could be her.

Where I find out that I'm not the only guy in the world.

I wasn't supposed to be there. I should have been at the annual reunion of my old college frat house, two states over. It was a tradition we started seven years back. It usually consists of an evening of boozing followed by a day of golf and a dinner. Not the best golf after the night before, as you may imagine. But the getting together is great. We are expected to be there Friday afternoon and return on Sunday. Myriam never accompanies me. It is a male thing; spouses and girlfriends are not invited.

My name is Bruce Pierson. Myriam is my wife of nine years. We met at that same college. Funny thing is we only got together at the last possible moment — during a party after graduation. It wasn't because I hadn't lusted after her in the years before. She just happened to be out of bounds, being with one or the other of the more popular football jocks. No reason for her to look past the bulging muscles, I guessed. I understood she had broken off the most recent relationship just a few days before. She never told me why. I never asked.

Myriam has a great body. It was why I wanted her. Well, don't call me shallow — it was why half the male population wanted her. Isn't it always the body at first? She was tall and lean. She had the kind of hair they call auburn and legs that don't seem to stop.

Funny thing was that she always tried to hide all that. She never flashed her legs or wore anything to accentuate her tits. Her wardrobe was expensive. Extremely tasteful too — she looked the essence of a thoroughbred New England girl. Mohair sweaters, streaming slacks and knee-length skirts, custom made jackets and modest heels. A string of pearls was her most outrageous attempt at jewelry. But of course they were real pearls.

Myriam dressed like a stylish prude. She essentially wore what my auntie would have worn had she been rich. The amazing thing was that it still made her look sensual and provocative. And not just to me. For a prude, there was always quite a lot of lewd gossip going around about her. I suppose it was out of spite and frustration,.

We didn't have sex that first booze-soaked night, although sex was the thing to do — it happened all around us. But there were two reasons why we didn't: her eyes. They are maybe the only eyes able to pull a man's gaze away from a woman's tits and keep them up there — mine at least. Her eyes are gray as a calm sea. But it always feels as if there is a storm brewing behind them. We talked and drank and danced and talked. We walked and talked. We hugged and even pecked a kiss. Then we danced some more. And yes, my cock grew hard against her thigh.

It didn't take us long to have sex, though. The first time was after I fell in love with her. Which happened to be on our first date. Which happened to be the very next day. I fell head over heels and so did she, she said.

Her body was all it promised to be — and more. But I guess that was because she lived inside it. There was always this patient, sweet, soft and incredibly tender force, just under her skin. It never exploded or got out of control, but it was there — shimmering, glowing. She could become quite passionate once we started, though she hardly ever initiated sex. She also was pretty limited in her sexual expressions. She loved foreplay, as in kissing, caressing and having her pussy licked. She loved to kiss me everywhere, including the tip of my cock. But that was exactly how far she went.

Making love mostly meant missionary for her. Sometimes she allowed me to enter her pussy from behind, but she had to be very horny for that. Her other entrances were no-go areas. When I tried 69 once, it really seemed to confuse her. When I attacked her in an elevator she was shocked. My hand got slapped when it crept up her thigh during a Thanksgiving dinner at her family's. But as limited as her variations may have been through the years, when we made love, we made passionate love. I never felt anything lacking. We always stilled each other's hunger. Then again, I guess our hungers were compatible. I always liked to think of us as a well-balanced, mature couple — we shared a love that grew way beyond mere sex.

The first year we made love almost daily. During our first months we did it on our kitchen table, on the couch, in the bathroom, even in our bed. Everywhere, as long as it was in the privacy of our house.

Anyone who met Myriam with her cool, stylish manner and modest outfits would have had no idea of the passionate Myriam within. It felt great to know I was the only one to enjoy that passion.

We married a year after graduation, when I got this job here. She found a good job too and I guess we were quite the yuppie couple. Nice apartment, exotic holidays, dinners with friends, some clubbing, some partying. And the money to pay for it. But good jobs and lots of socializing breed schedules, calendar planners and PDAs. Soon they started to rule our life.

The PDAs won, of course. Don't they always, even when they change their name to palm tops or Blackberries? By our second anniversary "bed" and "sex" had become synonymous. So had "weekend" and "sex." We knew what was happening and why. We fought it. But we more and more had to plan our fun and that killed half of it. Vacations were our last resort. We spent careless weeks on Jamaica and in Europe. But they just emphasized the barrenness of the times in between.

Myriam works as a legal advisor for a big import and export firm. She negotiates and writes up contracts. She is damn good and gets to hear it often. I am the managing director at the local branch of an international software company. I don't know much about computers, my talent is money. And I was talented enough to be kicked up the ladder quickly.

As a matter of fact, that was the reason why I was not at the frat reunion, that day.

Early Friday morning I had packed a simple bag and kissed a rather drowsy Myriam goodbye. The plan had been to take the afternoon flight and be in time for the first drinks at cocktail hour. I would fly back in the afternoon after the day of golf and dining. I already knew how my head would feel by then, so I took Monday morning off too.

Then my phone rang.

Jeremy Onslow is the second man at Headquarters. When he calls, it has been known that people drop to their knees. Mine are too stiff for that. But I must admit that my heart beat quickly. I expected the call. Not necessarily right now and not exactly from him, but there had been rumors around that made it plausible. You see, I've gone as high as I could go where I'm currently located. The only step up now would be to headquarters in New York. And that would be more than a step — it would be a leap.

Myriam knew it could happen; she had mixed feelings about it. The money would be great, so would living in Manhattan and all that. We'd often dreamt of it. But the move would also mean she would have had to leave her job behind. She loved me. She loved her job too.

Onslow had asked me if I could see him that night. It was rather important and as he was in town, this would be an excellent opportunity. I wondered why he wasn't here at the offices when he was in town, but one doesn't ask the Onslows of Corporaria why they are where they are. You also don't tell them "no, sorry, I have a reunion." So I phoned my buddies two states over that, alas, I could only arrive tomorrow and hope to be in time for the golfing. Start the boozing without me, guys.

I also phoned Myriam, but she did not pick up. Not on her cell and not at home. At her office her secretary said she was out. I tried once more later on, but without success. I shrugged and returned to my intricate dance with the quarterly figures.

The bar at the local five star hotel began to slowly empty. I pocketed my cell phone after another fruitless call to Myriam. At her work I only got security. She wasn't at home either.

The Excelsior Hotel ranks as about the poshest place we have in our pedestrian city. I had never been here on my own before, but I had often been here with clients — it was that kind of place. Drinks were twice the usual price and so were the hookers. One smiled at me as I nursed my soft drink. After two beers coke had seemed a smart change of pace. There'd be stronger stuff later on, no doubt. Where the hell was Onslow? It was getting close to 7:30, almost an hour later than agreed. Why the hell do these guys always have to rub your nose in their ego-shit?

Then I saw him. Thick set, gray where he wasn't bald, expensive suit, impressive eyebrows. We had met before. I didn't particularly like his aggressive management style, but it seemed to get things done. He was very successful.

Tonight I was to see quite a different Onslow. He went on and on, apologizing until he had reached the humblest bottom of his excuse-bucket. He'd had a meeting in town, you know. He had already arrived late. Couldn't get out of it. Tried to reach me. Didn't I get his calls? Damn secretary. And so on. Seeing Onslow grovel isn't good for your ego. You might start to think he finds you important.

I just smiled and asked him what he wanted to drink. Then we talked shop, football, news and sex. He even dished up a dirty joke — not a bad one either. Into the second drink he asked me if I had eaten. Of course I hadn't — I had been waiting. He hadn't dined either, so we decided to have a bite in the hotel restaurant. Being after eight, some of the tables were already deserted. At others people were having their dessert or coffee. Some were just stretching out their dinner and finishing their wines. People don't eat late in my city.

We found a small table in a far corner and ordered our meal. I had left most of my appetite at the bar. Onslow decided to choose a crazily expensive wine. He made quite a show of tasting it. Then we toasted and I must say the wine was good — even after two beers, a coke and a scotch on ice. Any vintage that survives a torture test like that must have its merits.

I felt tired. It was the kind of tiredness that turns the bustle of a dining room into a muffling blanket of atmosphere. I stretched my legs and looked around. Jazzy music seeped in from an adjoining lounge. I did hear Onslow, but his voice was veiled by the music and the bustle. He indeed probed me for the job. There were a few problems at headquarters. They were of the kind I had successfully solved at our branch, last year. The scale was much larger, of course. But I knew I could handle it. There also were big plans, Onslow said — amazing new developments. He told me my income would almost double, with bonuses and perks. They even knew a wonderful apartment for us. It had a terrace with park view and all. And very friendly mortgage terms.

I watched his face. I saw what he thought. He must be feeling like Father Christmas. Surely he would not often have the pleasure of dumping such a glorious treat on such a lucky bastard. In fact, he probably thought this should be an absolute no-brainer for me. I bet he wondered why I didn't grab the chance at once; why I looked away, clearing my throat. I knew the Onslows of this world. They would never understand men who loved their women enough to consider their wishes, too.

In the distance the lounge was filling up with festively clad people. They wore lovely gowns and sharp tuxedos. The music sounded mellow in a nice and snobby way. Then my breath stuck in my throat. Right at the entrance stood Myriam.

I knew it was she and yet it wasn't. I shook my head and looked again. She was dressed incredibly sexy. I had never seen her in the shimmering, sea-green evening dress she wore — or should I say, hardly wore. It just about hung on to her bare frame and it plunged at all the risky places. Her chest displayed more cleavage than she had ever shown in public. Nevertheless it seemed she was quite at ease. Her hair was done up, leaving her gracious neck free. She arched it elegantly to make her scarlet lips almost touch the ear of the man she clung to. She whispered with a smile. Both her hands were on his arm.

I didn't know the man. He was tall and dark, Mediterranean maybe, and about forty-five. He smiled at her whispers. Then he laid a hand on hers and answered. Myriam giggled.

Of course, my first thoughts were that this was a professional function — it wouldn't be unusual for her. But somehow that first impression didn't stick. You see, there is content and there is wrapping. There is the "what" and the "how," the brain and the gut. Even if this were business, all details screamed the opposite. To begin with, Myriam had never told me about her having a business appointment, let alone at a posh place like this. It was the most glamorous location our town had to offer. It would have been impossible for her not to tell me about it.

Then there was the evening dress. It must be new and very expensive. I had never seen her wearing it or even heard her talk about buying it. Well, to be sure, I had never seen her dress even remotely like this. It was the antithesis of everything she stood for. Its top freely showed the entire insides of her tits. It must be impossible to wear a bra with that.

But most of all, it was how she hung on to the man. Sure, Myriam can thaw. She can be warm and generous with people — even despite the cool of her reserved self. It is a big part of why I love her. But this was different. I saw the whispering. The blatant intimacy. The giggling. And the man's hand on her hand.

Seeing all this took only a few seconds. By then they had passed the narrow vista I had of them. Myriam walked very sexily on tall heels — taller than I ever saw her wear. I supposed the two of them would join the function in the big lounge, whatever it was. The few seconds I saw them, however, had been quite enough to absorb me. They had taken me effectively away from my table partner. His face and voice had receded into a misty distance.

Onslow must have been taken aback. Right as he proposed a promotion one can only dream of, I had shut him out. I just sat there and stared in the distance. He touched my arm. "Ehm," he said. "Are you OK, Bruce? You look as if you've seen a ghost." I pulled his face into focus. He tried a joke. "Well, if this is how you react to my good news, just wait till you hear my lay-off speech."

He laughed, I didn't. I rose and apologized. I walked the length of the dining room. Half hidden by a wall, I glanced into the lounge. It seemed as if a high-class party was going on — a fundraiser or something. About a hundred people milled around. In the back was a small band playing. Clusters of people talked. A few danced. Most of the guests gathered at the huge bar. Some sat at tables spread throughout the lounge. That is where I saw Myriam. The table was kind of in the back. She and the man were the only ones sitting at it. And they were kissing deeply.

Seeing her kiss this way made my stomach heave. Because I knew exactly what the man felt. You see, up to that moment I thought I was the only guy in the world who knew that. It hurts to know you are wrong about a thing like that. It hurt more than I had ever felt. The kiss didn't stop. Her slender fingers were in his hair. His hand was on her cheek. The way their faces moved betrayed an urge bordering on greed. Needless to say Myriam never kissed like that in such a public place. Not with me, anyway.

At last they disconnected. His dark head moved away from the brightness of her face. She gave him a flashing smile. Then she nodded and as they rose, I ducked behind the wall. When I looked again, they appeared to be gone. But soon I saw her shimmering dress on the dance floor. They moved slowly and very close to each other. Her face nudged the curve of his neck.

I'd had enough. Nausea made me reel. Was there anger? Certainly. I trembled with it. But it seemed covered by a blanket of sickening numbness. I felt totally beaten, I guess. Empty. Lost. I felt abandoned, betrayed. Discarded with the trash.

The white tiles in the bathroom were cool against my brow. I must have sat there quite a while. Too many questions wanted to invade my poor brain through an entrance that was way too narrow.

Most of the questions were about ridicule and humiliation. A multitude of precious, shared moments paraded past the screen of my mind. In all of them I saw Myriam laughing hysterically. She pointed at me, waved at me and bent over with shrieking glee. I was a clown and knew that I had always been one.

A major headache blossomed. I rose from the toilet and splashed hands full of cold water into my face. It hardly helped.

My table companion stood when I returned to our table. Our food had been brought. The mere sight of it turned my stomach. I apologized once more and I excused myself. I assured him that I was incredibly pleased with his proposition and would give him my answer as soon as I could, but right now a severe migraine seemed to be on its way. I really had to leave and find the safety of my darkened bedroom.

Onslow understood. He was all concern. He offered to take me home, but I assured him I could take a taxi. Then he insisted on getting one for me. The last I saw was his frowning face as the cab drove away.

I avoided throwing up in the taxi.

Early daylight crept around the curtains. My head was a bale of cotton, my eyes burned. But I sat and waited. I'd been sitting there ever since my stomach refused to turn inside out again. I had savored the bile that clung to the roof of my mouth. It seemed the appropriate taste of the moment.

I guessed Myriam might not even return for hours. I wasn't supposed to be here, remember? I was a thousand miles away. And she had pressing business to see to. She also had business to feel to. Business to moan and scream to. To swallow. To come to. Images roiled and rolled in my head. Never a dull moment, as they say. My mind was a one-man cinema. Time flew and I wasn't even having fun.

The rattle of her key in the lock tore me from semi-consciousness. I was wide-awake. She looked pale. Her hair was down, her make up almost gone. She wore a fur wrap around her shoulders. The stiletto heels were in her hand. "Welcome home, Myr." My voice croaked. "Did you have a good time?"

She froze, startled by my voice. "Bruce," she said.

I just looked at her. "Glad you remember my name." I admired my cool sarcasm from a distance.

She rushed over to me. Then she stopped when she saw my face. "Why ... ehm," she said. "Why are you here?"

I rose and walked past her. I pulled the curtains open. The harsh light wasn't kind to her face. I felt my mouth struggle into a smile. It must have been a rather ugly one. "I have a better question for you, honey," I said. "Why weren't you here?"

Her hand ran over her face. Maybe to ward off the cruel morning. "Ehm," she said. "I was at a function. Town's fundraiser at the Excelsior, remember? Didn't I tell you?"

I went over to the open kitchen and rested my elbow on the counter top. I remembered how thrilled we had been when we at last found the rare and precious granite. "No, I don't remember," I said. "Maybe you just imagined telling me. Anyway, it must have been a huge success, seeing how late it ended."

Her eyes shifted. She pinched the top of her nose, between her tired eyes. "Please, Bruce. I am dead tired. Let me get a shower and hit the sack." She already turned to leave for the bathroom. I stepped forward and grabbed her arm. I forced her to turn to me. She winced.

"No," I said.

"Please, Bruce," she gasped. "What are you doing?"

"Sit down," I growled. "Sit your sore ass down and listen." Her eyes went wide. I pushed her on the couch. "I saw you," I said.

Now her hand was over her mouth. "But how... ," she whispered. "You were..."

"I wasn't. Who is he?"

"A client."

"Stop fucking with me, Myriam."

"He is."

"How long, Myr?"

Her eyes shifted and I knew. She looked like this when she was annoyed. At first she had looked puzzled, then scared. Now she was annoyed. Some decision must have been made in her mind. "How long?" I repeated.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Bruce. Please." Her voice grew steadier. "It was a business function."

I almost lost it. I grabbed her wrist. "A fool? Am I a fool?"

Panic returned to her eyes. I had pulled her face almost to mine.

"Yes, Myriam! That is what I am, isn't it? A clown? A silly non-entity to trample on. To wave away. To have a good laugh over when you let your lovers pamper you."

She said nothing. Her eyes never met mine.

"Tell me, Myr. At least take me seriously enough to tell me."

She shook her hand free and started to rise. I pushed her down.

"There is nothing. So there is nothing to tell," she said with a whine. She rubbed her wrist. "And you hurt me."

I sat on the low table in front of her. I once more took her hands. She tried to pull away, but I held tightly to her hands.

"I hurt you?" I said. My voice was soft. "Come on, Myr. I know you fucked the guy. I saw you with him and I know you well enough to be very certain. I could force you to show me your fucked-out cunt. Maybe your ass, too. Maybe the love bites on your tits; his spunk on your breath."

I let go of her hands. I had her attention. I had never used words like fuck or tit around her. Let alone talk about anal sex. "I could, easily. But I won't. I won't check on you, Myriam," I went on. "You know why?"

She just stared.

"Because I love you." Her eyes widened. The white was tainted with red.

"Yes, you fucking whore," I went on. "I shall always love you as long as you are the Myriam I know. You may accidentally be weak and fall for the glamour of the moment. That would hurt me immensely. I think you know how that would hurt me. But you would still be my Myr. I'd find the strength to still love you. And hope that we would be able to get past this." Her eyes filled with tears. One spilled over and ran down her pale cheek.

I went on. "But maybe, honey, maybe you are someone I don't know at all. One who can live with betraying me, with lying to me and humiliating me. Maybe you have lied about our love for years. Secretly laughed at all I held precious. Tell me, Myriam. I need to know if I can go on loving you."

Tears were running freely now. My eyes burned too. Her lips trembled. A tear dangled from a corner. But she kept her silence.

I stood and looked down on her. "Good," I said. "You go shower your fucked-out body. Then go sleep off your exhaustion."

I made room for her to leave. She grabbed her purse and walked to the stairs. As she reached the first steps, I said: "You better get your act together, Myr. There is no clown in this circus." She stopped for two seconds. Her hand lingered above the rail. Then she gripped it and walked up the stairs, her bare feet sinking into the carpet.

I collapsed on the couch.

She slept till early afternoon. I wandered in and out of a shallow sleep myself. Around noon I went up to look in on her. I saw she hadn't showered. She hadn't even undressed. The fur lay like a dead animal on the floor. She was on her belly and seemed sound asleep. Her dress had crept up. I could not resist raising the hem. There were no panties.

Down in the kitchen I drank coffee and ate some toast. The turmoil in my head had died down. From a calm and featureless landscape loomed just one question, like a rock. Could we stay together?

I knew I could not answer that question. She could. If she wanted to. I poured a new cup and forgot how hot it still was. I burned my tongue. At that same moment I heard the shower start. It went on for a very long time. She finally came down in her robe. She looked fresh. Her wet hair was in a towel. Her smile was wan, but it was there.

"Coffee?" I asked. "It's nice and hot."

She stared at me. Then she nodded. "Honey," she said after sitting down. "I am sorry about last night, ehm, this morning."

I pushed the cup her way. "Why sorry?"

She looked into the steaming cup. "I left you with all these questions. I should not have done that, as there is nothing to worry about, really. You must have had an awful night."

She was all Myriam again — cool, nice and in control. I said nothing. I shoved a muffin her way. She looked but didn't touch it.

"His name is Carlos Kirchner," she then said. "He is from Argentina. We buy his meat." She winced when she pondered that line. She knew I would see the unintended pun. My God, how we knew each other.

"There was this fundraiser at the Excelsior, as I told you," she went on. She did not look at me. Her finger drew figures on the counter. "Carlos asked me to accompany him there, since he was all alone in the city."

"When did he ask you?" I interrupted. She looked up.

"Is that important?"

I nodded.

"Ehm," she said and wriggled on her stool. "It was on short notice. His wife would have been here, but she became ill and stayed in Buenos Aires."

"You must have found that dress rather quickly then."

"I borrowed it," she said.

"Wow," I said. "Would love to know the friend who dresses that sexy."

She blushed.

"Myriam," I said. "Why don't you just stop this game? I don't buy it. And it hurts me to see you degrade yourself like this."

"I don't know what you mean," she said. Her voice got softer with every word.

I rose from my stool. "A few hours of sleep and a long shower obviously aren't enough to get rid of the lies, honey," I said. "I'll give you more time. I have packed a suitcase and will live at the hotel for a while. Not the Excelsior, mind you."

I walked past her. She tried to stop me. I shook her hand off. At the door I turned around. "If you happen to stumble on the truth, Myr, please don't hesitate to share it with me."

I left the house. Did I hear her sob? I don't remember.

Where I wonder who I married nine years ago.

There isn't much to tell about the next few days. I felt as though I were living under water. All senses were subdued. Even sounds seemed muffled. With the aid of sleeping pills I slept a lot, but the quality of my sleep was more that of unconsciousness. I couldn't complain, though — the sleeping hours took a huge bite out of my painful existence.

While awake I worked, mostly. For once I was glad that my job was about numbers — solid, predictable and dependable pillars of security. Numbers don't lie, I told myself — at least not as blatantly as some people.

I phoned Onslow to apologize for abandoning him so rudely at the hotel. I told him I felt better. I also assured him that I was honored with his offer, very much so, and that I was certainly considering it seriously. I just had to clear a few personal issues first. He waved away my apologies. And he never asked about those issues. He just told me to take my time. Being careful about the decision was as important to them as it was to me.

After the phone call I mused on how things had changed so rapidly. What had been a big dilemma only last week, now seemed to have turned into an opportunity, an escape. Almost like a rope of sheets tied together to get me out of this jail my life had suddenly become — a new start, as they say.

I stared at the pen dangling between my fingers. A new start. Did I want one? Maybe my brain did. Between my brain and my heart, my brain always has the better judgment. And usually it doesn't find much opposition amongst my instincts.

Not this time, however. This time all my senses, feelings and emotions reared their heads in protest. For a numbers man like me that is a unique sensation. It left me in a swirl of roiling, conflicting feelings, pushing and pulling against my very balance.

The fingers around the pen trembled. I don't know how long I just sat there. My phone shook me out of my stupor; it was our company's legal counsel, calling me about some of the "personal issues" I had wanted to tackle.

Myriam never called me those first days. Maybe she thought that it was what I wanted. Oddly enough, it disappointed me. She is a social person. It should have been in her nature to want to explain herself, to look for the contact, even now. But she didn't. Was it one more answer to the question whether I knew her at all? Or worse, was it an answer to the question of whether she loved me at all? And why did I have questions like these to begin with?

She cheated on me. Maybe she had done it for a while. She exposed herself in public with another man, dressed as she never had done with me. She acted very intimately with him. And she fucked him, no doubt about that. But against all odds she kept lying to cover it up. No, I realized now ... she hadn't lied. She had just refused to answer. Why? What was the use?

My evenings and nights were hell. The hotel had a nice enough bar. I am afraid I spent too much time there, alone. I do have friends. I have colleagues I see privately. But most of them are shared acquaintances — they are as much Myr's friends as they are mine. I couldn't face them. Not before I found a way out of my quagmire.

After a week it became clear that Myriam didn't plan on telling me whatever truth she had decided upon. So I took out the business card I had received from my legal colleague.

The attorney was a woman. Her voice on the phone was deep and smooth. I guess it comes with the territory. We made an appointment and when I met her, she looked the voice. Forty—ish bordering on the ageless. Slick and professional. Handsome in the coolest of ways. I also knew that she had the reputation of certain predatory fishes with prominent back—fins — and the accompanying set of teeth.

She listened to my story. Then she said I ought to have more proof. It would be my word against Myr's. I smiled. I told her there might not be an "against"; I did not plan on accusing her of adultery. Not of anything, to be sure. I just wanted her to be presented with divorce papers. She had to know I intended to leave her life.

It took a while for her to understand. I told her that beside the house there was hardly any property to divide. And the house might as well be hers, I didn't care — I might not even be here anymore, in the near future. The point was to let her know she had lost me. We'd have another, quite different talk as soon as there proved to be an "against."

She reluctantly agreed.

Myriam phoned almost at once. She was highly agitated. A bit angry, too, I'd say. Or was it panicked? We should have talked first, she said. I was cold and cruel, she yelled. We should have talked. She had a right to explain.

I let her rage on for a few minutes. She ended it herself by starting to cry. Through the sobs she said she was sorry not to have phoned me. She was afraid, she said. She had not dared to call.

"Do you love me, Myriam?" I asked at last.

There was a shocked silence. "Oh God, honey, I love you so much," she whispered. "I am so sorry. I have been so selfish, so awful, I..."

"I don't think you love me, Myr."

"But I do! I DO!!"

Her vehemence caused me to move the phone away from my ear. I succeeded in keeping my calm.

"Honey, what kind of love is this if it prevents you from telling me the truth? How could my love scare you? I am in love with you, Myr. Unconditionally. If you are in love with me too, you are mine, just as I am yours. And if you are mine, your truth is mine too. Can't you see that? You can't keep it away from me. It is a cruel and demeaning thing to do."

There was silence. It was punctured by a sob.

I went on. "Myriam. You tortured me by withholding all contact for over a week. Not a word, not a sign. Is that love?"

The silence stretched to a point beyond hope. I was going to break off the connection when she said: "I love you, Bruce."

And there was a click, followed by a string of beeps. They seemed to mock me.

There is no clown in this circus, I had said. Now I wasn't so sure. At the Excelsior I saw Myriam look and behave as I haven't seen her ever do before. Certainly not in public. She loves to dress tastefully, never provocatively. She sometimes goes without a bra, as she doesn't really need one. But she never shows her chest off in a low—cut and flimsy dress, let alone in one as outrageous as she was wearing in that lounge.

The man seemed secure of her. He knew that all her attention was for him and to him. He owned her affection. Sex with Myriam had always been important to me, but even more special was the intimacy. By sharing that, she betrayed me the deepest and hurt me the most. When I witnessed their calm closeness I knew Myriam wasn't mine anymore. She was all his and she probably had been for a long time. All those moments, hours, eternities that I had considered ours, she had been someone else's. At best, I'd had her on time—share.

I started pondering possible affairs over the years, of course. She must have had ample opportunities. She traveled a lot. Her job took her to glamorous places. It gave her enough work-related excuses. And I was never there.

Myriam is reserved. But she isn't a nun or a shy girl. I see how she loves to get attention at times — in a fun and flirty way. I also know that with our interfering workloads and schedules I couldn't always have been there. But I thought she loved me. And I thought that love was this magical spell that guaranteed fidelity.

No clown in this circus, eh? I could kick myself with an oversized shoe.

When I called it a day, Myriam was waiting in the lobby.

I had been prepared for another lonely dinner and an even lonelier night. My eyes were barely functioning — they only registered the absolute necessities for survival, like where to put my feet while walking. I hardly looked up, so it was her voice that stopped me. I turned my head. She was running to me, her heels skating over the slick marble. Part of me wanted to run off — it must have been my childish part. The rest just succumbed to inertia.

She closed in. Silly details seemed more prominent than the whole picture — the hem of her skirt dragged at her busy legs, a floating strand of hair escaping the prison of her businesslike bun.

When she reached me, she panted. Her flushed face made me want to kiss her. I guess it was the contrast of her soft blushing skin and the severe, dark pinstripe jacket. It made her look vulnerable yet forbidding. She gave off conflicting signals. She was a child in armor.

Jealousy gripped me. I could not explain why. She had gone almost naked for the Argentinean and for all the world to see. Now here she was with me, dressed like a fortress. Maybe that was what caused my anger? Send in the clown...

Her hand touched my arm. "Bruce," she panted. "Please ... we must talk. We've got to."

I surfaced from my fish tank. The hue of deep sea green lifted. Even sounds seemed to clear up. The touch of her hand was the centre of my world. I took a step back to break the contact. She didn't let go.

"Please?" she begged.

We ended up in a crowded bar. The sound was overwhelming. There were sweaty men in shirtsleeves. Baseball claimed three overhead monitors. It took me a while to score two drinks and find a table in the corner.

I didn't want to go to a quieter place. I had decided that she wasn't ready. Maybe she'd never be. For the time being I needed the cocoon of noise. It would prevent Myriam from playing me with subtle lies and feigned intimacies — you just don't yell your intimate secrets in a crowded bar.

I handed her a gin and tonic and toasted vaguely with my beer. We drank. She looked unsure of what to do. "Can't we go someplace quieter?" she asked rather loud.

I understood her well, but said: "What?" I wanted her insecure and exhausted before we talked. I wanted her to nurse a nice anger. Childish, yes. But why should I be the only one hurting? I guess I was pretty fucked up, but that is what I wanted.

It took a while before it worked. She built half-sentences until she came to sensitive material. Then she'd stop, deciding on how to phrase it loudly yet safely in this public place. That would be where I'd punctuate whatever she said with another "what?" — a silly game, I know. One day it would shame me. But right now I could not resist. By the time I finished my beer, tears ran down her face.

"Let's go out, Bruce, please. Somewhere where we can talk."

"Pardon?" I bellowed.

She desperately stared at me.

"Another drink?" I offered.

She rose, grabbed her pocketbook and pushed herself through the throng. I sagged back, suffering from a big wave of remorse. But I slept well, that night.

Two days later I phoned Myriam. She took the call. But as soon as she saw it was I, she started yelling. I hung up on her. This went on for a few days. It wasn't getting us anywhere. So I decided another move in my "confuse & bewilder" campaign. I sent her red roses. On the accompanying card was just my cell number.

She phoned at once. And her voice was soft, even sweet. "Thank you, Bruce. If you only knew how happy those flowers make me."

"Did you count them?"

The short silence told me she was counting. "Nine..."

"Any idea why nine?"

Another pause. Then: "Of course, silly. The years we have been married. So sweet, so hopeful."

That was where I left a silence.

"Maybe," I said. "But I'm not sure. Shouldn't there have been six? Or even three? Maybe none at all? What do you say?"

"Bruce..." She sounded more puzzled than offended. "Why all these riddles? Please come home, honey. I miss you."

"Home," I mused. I repeated the word. "Such a wonderful concept. Some people even know what it means."

Silence.

"It was business, Bruce." She sounded tired now. "It was nothing."

I stared at the phone in my hand. "Call me when the lies wear off," I said. It was all I could get out without exploding in anger. I pushed the little red button. The invisible thread between us snapped. How appropriate.

The days went on, nothing happened. Work recaptured my attention and time made my anger seep away.

At a deeper level, I started to admire her stamina. She didn't budge. I guess she supposed that refusing to tell even the beginning of a truth would start me doubting myself. She must be waging that I hadn't seen more than what I'd told her.

That was when I decided to eat my pride. I invited her for dinner. Maybe she'd succeeded in wearing me down. But I told myself that stretching out this game of hide and seek was more harmful than a quick divorce. I had long since concluded that Myriam didn't love me at all. Not anymore. She just wanted me back for comfort and luxury. Or sheer stubbornness. I based that idea on more than simple suspicion. It is true: husbands may always be the very last to know. But husbands have friends. They also have colleagues.

After our battle of the roses, I called Bess. She once was in the pool of secretaries Myriam worked with before she got her own secretary. That was over two years ago. Bess had left the company a year later to have a child. She never returned.

She and her husband had been at our table often, and we at theirs, though not for at least a half a year. I'd always liked her healthy no-nonsense attitude. It had a nice touch of concreteness. On the phone I asked her how she was, her child, her husband. Then I told her I'd love her advice on a personal matter. It must have peaked her curiosity. We picked a time and place.

When she walked in I admired her. I saw the same honey blonde cloud floating around her pretty head. She still had the healthy blush, the sparkling eyes. She was like a sea breeze through an open window. Her smile lit up when she saw me. Her embrace was uncomplicated and busty.

I complimented her. She said that I didn't look half bad myself. She ordered tea, I had coffee.

I told her that Myriam and I had separated. It caused her eyes to widen. She started the expected sorry's when I interrupted her. "I saw her being intimate with a man at the Excelsior," I said. "I wonder if you would have been as surprised as I was."

She hesitated. Her fingertip ran a quick circle around the edge of her teacup.

"I, ehm," she murmured. "Bruce, I haven't worked with her for more than two years now. I have only seen her a few times since the baby was born, remember? How would I know what she is doing and why? I guess it was a professional function?"

I said I saw her point. I didn't want her opinion, I said. I had seen her hesitation at the start. Why was that?

She fumbled with the wrapper of her cookie. "Please, don't ask me, Bruce."

I nodded. I saw that she knew perfectly well what I meant and why I had asked. I guess she was just being loyal. I had to respect that, maybe. But it annoyed me. "I suppose you think you owe her your loyalty, Bess," I went on. "That in itself tells me things, you know? Things that make me worry."

Bess kept her silence. Her eyes wandered. It was quite unlike her.

"If you don't want to tell me, Bess, then simply tell me if I should worry? Please?"

Almost unnoticeable, she nodded. It sent a wave of nausea my way. I had to test my legs before rising.

"Thank you, Bess. I know this makes you feel uncomfortable, being in the middle and all. I appreciate that you took the trouble to see me." I threw money on the table and turned to leave. Her hand was on my sleeve. She had risen too.

"I am sorry, Bruce. So sorry." The blue of her eyes looked clouded. They were diffuse with imminent tears. She hugged me tightly.

I talked with two more friends. I knew they were Myr's as well as mine, but I had to know. Of course I did not expect straight answers — they had not felt the need to tell me anything in all these years. Myr and I had met them at parties, dinners, and even on short vacations. So why would they tell me now? In stories and movies, conversations may be more explicit. In real life one has to fend with hunches and unspoken hints, it seems. Well, in my reality, anyway, I had to. I could only guess and prod in a labyrinth of possibilities. I had to feel my way forward.

I knew Myriam had cheated on me at least this one time I had seen her. I also knew that she betrayed our intimacy. And that she had lied about it. As for the rest, I had to trust friends who had never bothered to warn me.

Just as with Bess, there were all kinds of pauses, uneasy glances and cut off sentences. It left me wondering about their strange ethics. A marriage is private; so don't get involved, they must have thought. See the innocent sucker suffer, watch things go down the drain. But never ever say a word. So they didn't tell me what they obviously knew. They also never defused my suspicions. Lovely, but never mind. The more they refused to say, the more I understood.

The appointment with Myriam was at a Mexican restaurant. It had been one of our favorites ever since we had come to this town. I can see how some people would have avoided meeting at a place haunted with sweet and now painful memories. I have to agree that the pain was there. But I reckoned she would feel it too. It might eat away at her resolution.

She looked elegant in a pale and tired way. Her outfit was business like — I even doubt if she changed after work. That disappointed me in part. It meant she hadn't bothered to seduce me. On the other hand it might save me from emotional outbursts.

We were polite and small—talked right through the main course. We skipped dessert as we usually do — did. The coffee was excellent. So was the dark chocolate.

The first uncomfortable silence fell right after the first sip of our espressos. We knew we couldn't hold it off any longer.

"Myr," I said. "Did you find any useful truths for me, lately?" I was sorry as soon as the words left my mouth. I could not take them back. But Myriam did not seem to hear the venom. She put down her tiny cup and straightened a crease in the tablecloth.

"Did you ever consider, honey," she started in a very soft voice, "that I already told you the truth?"

I was baffled. My mouth must have hung open while I stared at her. She just said there, smiling tentatively.

"Darling," she went on, her voice gaining in strength. "You never even tried to believe me, did you? You condemned me right from the start of this silly farce. I was guilty whatever I had to say, wasn't I?"

There is this funny thing in nightmares, where you want to run away and can't. You are tied down with invisible ropes. You want to scream and are unable to.

Myriam knew I had seen the naked dress, the kissing, the touching, the close dancing. She had come home in early morning, exhausted and ravaged. There had been the silly, inconsistent story. And then there was the uncertainty of what more I might know. But still she refused any answer. Surreal was the word. The brazenness of it sapped me of my last energy. There just wasn't even the smallest point anymore, was there?

"Myr," I croaked. I desperately tried to find my voice. "Myr. You really must have very little respect for me. It took us almost a month to find a way to talk. I gave you weeks to summon up the courage to tell me what happened. And you ladle up this ... this bullshit?"

My hand crashed down on the small table. It made the cups and spoons and candles jump. "You'll hear from my lawyer," I said and rose. When I returned from paying the cashier, Myriam had already left.

The divorce went smoothly and without dispute.

I never saw Myriam again until we had to sign. And there she made certain I saw her. She looked spectacular. Her hair was coiffed and glowed with a new, deep red. Her eyes were made up abundantly, as was her mouth. The short skirt hugged her tightly as if painted on her frame. Her tits seemed bigger than I remembered. And when she bent forward to sign the papers, they almost fell out of her blouse. There wasn't much to restrain them.

When she rose again her breasts settled with a liquid bounce. Her smile was radiant — it scorched the air between us. She winked. Then she turned and walked away with a sway in her tightly packed hips. I remembered where I saw those towering heels before.

I never regretted the divorce, but that did not make me feel any happier. The end was all but satisfactory. Had I hoped that the act of divorce would hurt her? Why would it? Her extravagant attitude and outfit made it clear that she did not need me anymore.

There just were no ways within the law to punish her for what she had done. Or even to hurt her. She was a free woman now. All I could do was forget her and move on.

The Myriam I had known had always been a proud, independent woman. I admired her for it and it was a big part of her attraction to me. She insisted on having her own life, her own goals and successes. But she had loved me and was happy to share them with me, as I was to share mine with her.

Then she found things she did not share. It may have started small and insignificant. Like getting compliments from attractive—looking, powerful men. Or being pampered on trips, at functions. First class travel may have helped, luxury boat trips. She gladly let herself be raised onto a pedestal of flattery.

It became a delicious delusion. Soon she must have started comparing. She allowed a curtain of glittering glamour to fall between us. It swept her away to a world where I could not follow. A world of wealth — of fast and shallow fun. She found herself on a stage, warmed by the limelight of admiration. And when the prize she had to pay started to accumulate, she paid gladly. She was hooked and never rattled her golden chains, it seems.

I could not compete.

Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt. By now I wonder why she had stayed with me as long as she did. Why had she bothered to return again and again from the dream world she had found. And mostly, why had she taken all the trouble of keeping the truth away from me after I found out. Was it guilt, after all? Or even stubbornness — not wanting to admit it was over?

Maybe I was a necessary ingredient of her illicit adventures. The part that made it extra thrilling. She might get a power kick out of knowing she humiliated me: stupid, naive me. And maybe she needed to be married as assurance against affairs getting too involved? So many possible reasons: maybe the instinctive need for a fall-back plan; or an insurance against a time when all this yummy bliss might be over; or a pension for when she got older.

It must have been anything but love, I decided.

I could go and ask her. But seeing her that last time robbed me of all desire to ever meet her again. And, well, after a while it doesn't matter much anymore, does it? I became very good at convincing myself that I was over it. Why should I want to meet the woman who killed the woman I loved?





Where I find out the true meaning of Public Relations.

They say that in the end time heals all wounds. I don't know, they may be right. But it really is too easy to be right that way. I mean, how could they go wrong when they never tell how much time it takes to heal? In my case, two years obviously wasn't enough — as I found out in the lounge bar of the Belmont Hotel in Dallas, Texas.

Even before the divorce was final I had moved to New York. I got the job and all the benefits — except the huge penthouse apartment, obviously. I didn't need that anymore. I was a freshly divorced single man. I just wanted to drown myself in my work in order to forget.

The job part went very well — I just failed at the forgetting. I'll soon be a vice president and on my way to the board. But all the real motivation seems gone. The rewards just aren't enough to kill the pain, which at the start, hardly allowed me more than a few hours sleep at night.

Granted, it isn't healthy to mourn that long over a common slut. But she was Myriam, remember? I loved her. And you'd have to shoot with bigger cannon to kill the love I felt for her.

After a few weeks I even went to see a shrink. For half a year, true as clockwork, I walked into her wood-paneled office once a week, feeling like Tony Soprano — and I didn't even get to kill anybody.

The good doctor looked the part, so I did the best I could. But after half a month I already knew she wouldn't heal me of my lingering depression. She was nice company, though. I needed a patient ear those first months — even if I had to pay for it. Which makes me wonder now why I didn't feel the urge to pay for other female services in this city that never sleeps. God knows I hardly slept. My bed was empty. So was my apartment, so were my weekends. I just felt too numb, I guess.

Erica changed all of that.

I met Erica at the tennis club. It was by the Chelsea piers and open day and night. Playing there was an excellent opportunity to do something positive with my sleepless hours. A colleague invited me and after playing a few times, I became a member. There were always people around who were looking for a partner. One of them was Erica. We soon played regularly, often twice a week.

She was a big woman. Not as in fat — there wasn't an ounce of that on her. She was a tall blonde athlete. It took me weeks to get my neglected body in good enough shape to avoid being royally thrashed each time we played. I even worked out twice a week to help with my conditioning. The time in the gym cleared my mind and punished my body enough to add a few hours of sleep to my barren nights.

After showering, we often had a bite at the small club restaurant. Bagels and juice. Or a shake. A tall mint tea for Erica. It became quite a nice tradition after a while. I started looking forward to it. Erica was great company. It must have been hard work for her at the start, 'cause I didn't talk much. I had become a master at sucking the blood out of any conversation. If it threatened to become even remotely emotional, I just made it ricochet off my armor into the innocent realm of the weather — or the latest movie.

Erica changed that one evening. Our tennis game had been remarkably vicious, ending in a 7 to 6 tie-break set for her and another one for me. The shower did me the usual world of good. The salmon bagel tasted great. And Erica was glowing. Her skin blushed and her moist hair shone in the designer lights.

"Why do you always bring these people with you, Bruce?" she said. Her pinky removed a few crumbs from the corner of her mouth.

I stared at her. "People?"

"Yes," she said, almost off hand. "The woman behind you. I can't see her face, but she must look great. And a man. A few men, I'd say. They are rather out of focus, though."

I tried my blankest face. I guess it needed laundering for she didn't fall for it.

She chuckled. "Dearest Bruce," she said, "ever since we met I knew you were only half here. It's the way you defuse every conversation. The unhappy pauses whenever I probe past the day you came to New York. And now this expression you're wearing — what does it mean? Are you suggesting that I am wrong?"

She grinned. All she had said sounded light and casual. But her eyes were neither. Then she shrugged. It made her tightly-packed tits tremble. "Well, hon," she went on. "It is none of my business, of course, but I sure hope that woman behind you would stop controlling our conversation. I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep it going, this way."

Ever since the disaster with Myriam I felt panic when people scratched at the wall I had built around me. And no one had scratched as effectively as Erica did right then. The panic shoved me into defense mode. From there to indignation was only a small step. I threw my napkin on the table and rose.

"I have no need for this, Erica," I said through clenched teeth. "Take your charity elsewhere." And I left the restaurant.

It took me just an hour to see what an ass I had been. But I needed a week to get myself past my pride. I skipped two tennis evenings. I also neglected my workouts. In short, I had effectively sent myself back to the quagmire.

Monday morning of the second week I got a call on my cell. I saw it was Erica. Just noticing the name made me freeze. I could not move my finger. I let her go directly to voice-mail.

It took me a few minutes to listen to her message. She sounded cheerful. "Bruce? Just to let you know: failing to appear means you've lost two games by now. It's the rule. I am two points up, honey. Three and you're out! Should I bother to come at all this week? Let me know."

God, did I feel silly. Here was this wonderful woman who had single handedly pulled me out of my shit and I left her without a word. Just because she'd had the gall to care for me.

I was there, of course, that same evening. Don't ask me about the anguish and the sweat. I was there. So was she. And she beat me 6 love, 6 - 3. Those three games were only because she pitied me.

Afterwards, she sipped from her fruit shake. "Sorry, Bruce," she said. "I was nosey. But I couldn't bear seeing you like that, week after week after week. You must have gone through hell."

I watched her and something broke. For the next half hour I spilled the whole story. Once I started, I couldn't stop. It was as if there was a third person telling it all. I watched and could not stop him.

Erica just listened. A dark pink blush rose from her throat. When she at last spoke, she was angry. "The goddamn whore," she hissed. "And here you are, more than a year later, still broken into a million pieces. Only half the man you could be. It's a damn shame."

Her hand was on mine. Amazing how tender it could be after whipping my ass at the tennis court. "Bruce," she said. "Forget the bitch. Please do me a favor and forget her. Promise me. She's just not worth it."

Now don't think there was sex involved, or ever would be. From the start, I knew Erica was a staunch lesbian. To keep me from forgetting that, she sometimes was picked up by her girlfriend, Marlene, after we played. At those occasions she clearly demonstrated the difference between our growing friendship and the love she had for the pretty petite girl who had the cutest habit of making her English sound more French than her French.

Since that conversation, our friendship spread from the tennis court to life's wider realm. We went to movies and exhibitions together, we dined and shopped together. Usually, there were only the two of us, sometimes Marlene joined us.

Erica had taken to heart the task of getting my sloppy single life back on track. She helped me to seriously change my barren apartment into an inhabitable place. She also made me fill my wardrobe with decent and even fashionable clothes. And finally, of course, she did what no woman is able to resist. She set me up with a woman.

The first one was called Caroline. She was a thirty-ish redhead who "accidentally" met us at a table in a new and trendy restaurant. Of course she had a few minutes to spare and of course she ended up dining with us, and sure enough we had a few drinks afterwards and found ourselves alone at a small table after Erica "suddenly had to leave." By then I did not mind. Caroline was fun. But when I at last took her home to her tiny apartment in the East Village, I disappointed her by refusing her offer of a "cup of coffee."

I met Caroline twice after that. The last time was embarrassing as she already had my zipper down before I could stop her. I must have seemed a stupid fool to her. I guess I was. But I just couldn't do it.

The next time I met Erica she was as sweet as ever. But I knew she really wanted to be furious with me. Thank God she limited her fury to beating me with a definitive 6 - 2 and 6 - 3.

Everything in life is about timing, I guess. Caroline had the poor luck of being first — and being too early. Or was it me who had the poor luck? Probably the latter. Anyway, three weeks later I ended up in bed with Rachel. She was tall and blonde and her mouth did miracles with my reluctant cock. At the start I must have been as shy as a teenager, but Rachel never hesitated. She took me in without giving me a chance to think twice.

The weeks that followed were like a dream. After Erica, Rachel was the best thing happening to me since Myriam pickled my heart with sulphur and brimstone. Rachel was just staying in New York for a month, though. She lived in Los Angeles and went back there after three weeks. The last weekend we hardly left my apartment. Of course we kept in touch for a short while, but the moment I kissed her goodbye at the airport I knew the whole exciting thing was already in the past.

During the year that followed, I dated three more women. Life was fun again. And that fun nicely filled the empty potholes in my soul. To anyone myopic and short-sighted enough, I looked as good as new. My job took me all over the country and frequently overseas as well. My unattached existence made me the ideal equalizer of bumps and scratches in our corporate armor.

I never counted Dallas among my favorite cities.

That surely wasn't Dallas' fault. It always seemed to bask and sparkle in the southern sun whenever my plane landed. It was big, and shining — overwhelming in the long honored Texan way. But it would never touch the strings of my heart. My loss, I'm sure.

It seems, though, that everything the city lacked was made up for by the Belmont hotel. Whenever they sent me to Dallas, I would book a nice suite at the Belmont. It has the charm of the mid-twentieth century. But it also has all the luxury I needed to compensate for being away from New York. To be honest — for hotels I always used the Onslow Rule. It comprised a simple question: where would Onslow book? That's where I would go.

It was a late afternoon in May, almost two years after I left my marriage and went to New York. I had been in a gruesome meeting at our offices in downtown Dallas. It was about a reorganization to meet the overly ambitious bottom-line Onslow had set for the next three years. The necessary measures would cut to the quick and I was there to watch them do it effectively and fairly.

I had just come down from taking a long and steaming shower. The fresh cotton shirt and linen slacks were a relief after the formal suit I had been wearing all day. I carried a book to read on the lovely terrace. The Road To Wellness, by T. Coraghessan Boyle. It was fun, I liked it. But the cocktail lounge looked inviting too.

So did the woman who sat at the bar. Her back was towards me. Her shock of chestnut hair caught my eyes first, closely followed by the shapely ass that hugged the stool's top. One endless leg bathed in a beam of afternoon sun. She turned her head and saw me. I suppose my eyes went as wide as hers.

"Myriam," I said. A pink blush darkened her face. My heart touched my throat.

"Bruce..."

She looked incredible. Gone were the boring business gear and modest make-up. Gone was the knee covering skirt. No decent lady's blouse, today. Her silk top was low-cut and looked expensive, as did her tight skirt and the elegantly stilettoed sandals. She looked breathtakingly sexy.

"You, ehm ... you look gorgeous."

Her lip trembled. She stuttered. Then a smooth smile washed her insecurity away. "Eh, ah, yes. Thank you. You look great yourself."

I recognized the smile. And yet I didn't. The familiarity was disturbing. So was the difference.

I once more discovered that it doesn't take a lot to turn a grown man into a sweating teenager. Thank God reality rushed back in. The urge to run away disappeared. Sound and image returned to my senses. I offered my hand, she took it. The shaking was highly surreal. It made us both giggle nervously.

"Ms Collins, I presume?" I said, wincing at the corny joke.

She nodded and widened her smile to reward my lame remark — the perfect hostess. Then she waved to the stool next to her. I walked over to it, but didn't sit down.

"Can I get you a drink?" I asked, only to see she still had a full glass. A gin and tonic, no doubt. Fate refused to make this an easy day for me.

After ordering a scotch and water, I at last sat down. My eyes had been on her the whole time. Somehow the way she looked seemed to carry a message — something essential. I stared at the classy sexiness. The new abundance of her chest. The sensuality. The general ease of her face, her movements. I noticed the perfection of it all.

"What brings you to Dallas?" I asked. I felt relieved. At last I had found an innocent line in my disheveled basket of small talk.

"Business," she said. Her voice was like her smile. Home, it said. Welcome home. I had to shake my skull to chase the seduction away. It was too slick to be real. And yet it made my skin crawl. I took a sip of my scotch and tasted nothing. Say something light, I urged myself. Something funny!

"Still at the same firm?" I asked. "Importing meat?"

She didn't even wince. Her curls danced as she shook her smiling head in denial. "I am into public relations now." I heard a husky breath in her voice that had never been there before. It reached out for my crotch.

"Oh my," I said. "That is really something else."

She chuckled. The throaty quality was still there. "I found out that I am pretty good at it," she said. "But what about you? You went to New York. I am very jealous."

The last word was attached to the tiniest of laughs. I tried to find an emotion in her eyes to match it. There was none — just the smooth, beautiful mask.

"Yes," I answered. "I'll be on the board next year."

I don't know why I had to say that. Did I want to impress her? Did she make me do it or did I do it to myself? What was it that turned me into the proud little boy bringing good marks home from school? I don't know — I just did. And she smoothly praised me with her eyes and her voice. She massaged me with them. It made me feel warm inside. I wanted to be — close. And yet it felt like velvet plastic.

Public relations? She indeed must be good at it.

"So I guess you are here for business too?" she asked. She turned away to pick up her glass. Her glossed lips kissed the rim.

It was all so very awkward. Here I sat with the woman I had shared my soul with for over ten years. The woman who had become as much a part of me as I had been of her. And look at us — two polite talking machines in a slick, perfectly designed lounge in a city as far away from our roots as could be.

I felt a tear burn behind my eyelids. I guess it was for all that had been and now had evaporated. I felt like I was standing at our grave, and there was no one but myself to mourn the two of us down there.

A shudder ran down my spine. "Goddammit, Myriam!" I cried. It startled her. "Why? Why this? Who are you? Where are you? What happened?"

Her lush eyelashes fluttered. A twitch touched her impeccable mouth. She slid off her stool. "Ehm, yes," she muttered. "Ah well, I guess my client has arrived. Please excuse me."

I grabbed her wrist. My face was almost against hers.

"Myriam! For god's sake!"

She tugged at my grip. I let her go. She looked over my shoulder and smiled. A perfect smile — a warm smile. I turned and saw a man walking towards us. Early fifties. Forty pounds overweight. Expensive suit — Stetson hat. JR's nephew, maybe. He extended both hands to Myriam. I took a step back to make room.

"Estelle!" he exclaimed. "Ravishing as ever!" He hugged Myriam and they kissed. I put down my glass and walked away.

"Let's get this out of the way first," I heard the man say. I turned around. Myriam took something from him and put it in her purse. Then she saw me looking. She turned away.

I walked on to the elevators.

The desire to sit and read on the sunny terrace had gone. So had the desire to have the planned dinner with two of the people I had been negotiating with all day. But short of lying, there was no way I could get out of the appointment.

The restaurant was first class, but I had no appetite. I was distant and I drank too much. Thank god I don't get loud when drunk. And I have a strong stomach. But lying on my bed, back at the hotel, I realized that it had been a long time since I last saw the ceiling revolve like the planets around the sun. Anyway. As I said: two years were not nearly enough to get over her.

She was a whore now, it seemed. No doubt she'd use another job description. Public relations — I chuckled without mirth. Escort service, no doubt. Classy arm candy. Well-educated fuck flesh. Oh, damn, Myriam. Did I ever know you? My mind waded back through a swamp of alcohol-tainted memories. Had she been the company whore for all those years? And if so — why had I never noticed? And why did I still care? How could she have hidden it? The business trips, no doubt. My business trips too. The long hours, maybe.

How could she have been so sweet with me and still betray me like that? I remembered her comments on the morality of others. Her disdain for trashy dresses and sluttish behavior. They were old thoughts, recycled musings. And once more they returned. Did I care at all? I guess I still did. I groaned in the dark.

I felt ashamed. Isn't it curious how you can be ashamed for being the victim — even while knowing she ought to be ashamed for betraying you? I almost felt guilty because I had been so naïve. I even now felt the shame for trusting her with my life while she must have been laughing behind my back — making fun with others about me. It makes you feel so small, so diminished.

That was when the phone rang. I turned and peered at the clock's green numbers. It was past three. A sense of alarm invaded me.

There was sobbing at the other end — a woman's voice. My name was somewhere among the gasps and snivels. It sent a wave of adrenalin up my throat. And it cleared my brain.

"Bruce?"

I could not push the off button. I could not move the phone from my ear to the cradle. I should have, but I had to listen.

"B-Bruce?"

"That you, Myriam?"

Silly question. I guess there are moments when silly questions can't be avoided.

"I want to die, Bruce. I don't want to live anymore."

You know ... there are good people and bad people. Some of the good can be virtual saints. Some of the bad can be evil. But most people are neither — they are just in between. Then there are the people you love. Like other people they can be either good or bad, but that is immaterial. Their love claims you, blinds you. They can be your children, your parents, brothers, sisters, and friends. They can be spouses ... even ex-spouses. And there is nothing you can do about it.

Five minutes after the call Myriam huddled in my bed, hugging herself — arms around her knees. The fluffy white bathrobe was wrapped tightly about her. So was the extra blanket I gave her. She still shook, her teeth chattering. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face blotched. The lovely chestnut curls I remembered from the lounge now stuck wet and stringy to her face.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I waited, feeding her Kleenex tissues.

"I am a bad person, Bruce." Her voice was a whisper.

"I know," I said. Her eyes widened.

"I know you are bad, Myriam," I went on. "I just didn't know you knew it too."

This sent another flood of tears to her eyes. I saw I had reached the bottom of the tissue container. The white flimsy paper lay around her like colorless autumn leaves and early paper snowballs.

"I don't want to be bad," she said in between hiccups.

"I guess no one wants to, Myriam." I wondered about my calmness. I also wondered where this surreal talk would take us. It was mostly surreal because it felt so strangely comforting.

"I couldn't help it, you know, Bruce?"

"You couldn't help what, Myriam? Lying to me?"

She just gaped. Her head slowly shook left and right. I shrugged and went on. "Did someone force you to humiliate me, Myr? Did they blackmail you so you had to turn me into a cuckold clown? Were you forced to laugh with your lovers about the fool I was? What part couldn't you help, Myriam? There are so many possibilities."

It reduced her to a fountain of blubbering again. I wondered why it did not irritate me. I rose from the bed. "Maybe you should calm down. Take a shower, Myriam. I don't think this is getting us anywhere."

She shook her head vigorously. "No!" she said. "First I must tell you everything. I have been such a fool not to warn you about who I am and what I did. I never told you."

I sat down again. I studied her face. What did she mean by "warning me about who she was" and "never telling me"?

"Myriam," I said. "Maybe you need to talk, but maybe I don't want to hear it. It has been two years now. Time has done its thing. I worked very hard to let it succeed. I don't think I want to know anymore."

Her eyes froze. The sobbing stopped. "I..." she began. Then she started crawling to the side of the bed. The squeezed balls of moist tissue rolled away from her.

"I," she said again. " I guess I should not bother you, Bruce. I'm sorry for raking it all up again." Her bare feet were on the carpet. She started tidying up the bed, collecting the tissues. Then she stood there. Her eyes shone with tears. It was hard to hold the heap of paper in her shaking hands.

As I said, there are good and bad people. But then there are also people you love — good, bad or whatever. I rose and took her in my arms. She drenched my bathrobe in a new flood of tears.

The spongy paper balls flew all over the place.

When the morning sun peeked through the slits of the blinds, she was still in my arms. We lay on the bed. Myriam had sunk into an exhausted sleep. I had shushed her repeated attempts to "tell me all" until I heard her breathing slip into a slow and regular pattern. I am not sure I slept at all.

Careful not to wake her I reached for the phone and ordered breakfast to be delivered in an hour. Then I slipped out of her embrace and went to take a shower. I left the room fully dressed, suitcase dangling from my hand. The last I saw was her face. It looked relaxed with the innocence of sleep. A yellow piece of paper lay on her chest. It rose and sank with her breathing.

I closed the door behind me.





Where I discover that I can't kill the woman I married.

I had been back in New York for two days when the package arrived. It lay at the centre of my desk and was the size of a shoebox. The address was handwritten. I knew the familiar curls, the generous lettering. Maybe I shouldn't open it, I thought, while my fingers were already opening it.

The box was crammed with balled-up white tissues. On top lay the yellow piece of paper I had left on her chest while she was sleeping. It had obviously been crumpled before being smoothed out again; the ink of the writing seemed blotted by moisture. A few words had been added at the bottom, but they were crossed out again. I tried to read them. I thought I saw "love."

I remembered what I had written on the yellow paper. I knew I would regret the opening my words had left her. Why couldn't I have just been satisfied with a simple good-bye — maybe an added good luck? It must have been that damn four-letter word again. The word that starts with an l, but isn't "lust." Lust hadn't been in my thoughts for all the time she had been in my arms. My cock had stayed as dead as a cold, naked snail.

But alas, yes, another organ had been highly involved — my heart. Damn foolish heart, stupid blood-pumping muscle. The same one that was rattling at my rib-cage right now.

I cleaned the box from the puffy balls of tissue paper. (It's true, you know — a woman's tears are her weapons. And Myriam had found a perfect way to cry long-distance.) At the bottom lay a picture. It was a postcard-sized glamour shot of "Estelle." Her heavy-lashed eyes blazed from the paper, as did her smile. The chestnut hair curled down in perfection until it caressed her stunning new cleavage. Her alias was printed in a corner, in a girlish, faux-handwritten way — a little heart added. The kitschiness of it all made me shudder. All over the shining picture, huge, fat letters had been hurled down with a magic marker: "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" they screamed.

On the back of the photo was the address of the agency. It was the Dallas-based branch of a nationwide network. New York, I saw, and Vegas, Detroit, San Francisco. Even London. There were also some tiny italic lines describing her classy qualities as an escort for visiting businessmen. There was her degree and her business experience. She was "intelligent, witty and well-read." Physical attractiveness or sexual prowess weren't mentioned; I guess the photograph was supposed to speak for itself. The same black magic marker of the front had been used to jot down a cell-phone number on the back — and the word "please."

I dropped the card on the desk and stared at it.

The agency's business number was amongst the small print. It had been partly obscured by her jotted-down cell number. The Houston Hilton would be close to where I had to be anyway, next week.

It took me half an hour to consider making the call. All the while I had stared at the picture — the eyes, the computer-polished skin, the smile that made my heart weep. The alien tits. "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" she wrote. I had to agree.

The female voice sounded all-businesslike in a smooth and sympathetic way. Yes, Estelle was available. And yes, my wishes could be easily met as long as I knew there would be extra charges. If I'd please leave my address and all other instructions, they'd take care of everything.

I made one more call later that afternoon and then I threw away the box and its contents. I went to the fitness centre where I allowed the machines to torture me in their cruelest ways.

Later that evening I beat Erica 6 - 2 and 6 - 3. She asked if I was all right. I smiled and told her not to worry.

The room was spacious. It was a suite, really. The afternoon sun tried to pierce the drawn shades. It resulted in a warm, intimate atmosphere. Golden specks danced in the narrow beams of sunlight that spilt around the edges of the shades.

The hands on my watch crawled closer to the appointed hour. I guess there is nothing as efficient in making a man doubt his motives as having time to kill. Why was I here in the first place? Hiding behind a screen to watch my ex-wife destroy the last spark of affection left inside my sorry excuse for a heart. Why — after two years, for Christ's sake — did I still have this seething need to get back at her? I should have thrown away the pathetic box and the gruesome picture. Better yet — I should never have let her into my room in that Dallas hotel.

Through the slits of the tasteful Japanese screen I had a view of the king size bed. I could also see two of the men lounging in the adjacent room. Tall, handsome men — long legs, tight shirts over muscled chests. Well endowed too, as they had assured me. The third man was in the bathroom, I guessed. I sat up and once more wondered why I was here, doing what I was doing.

It had all been quite easy to organize. Expensive, true — but I didn't care. Looking back I would have to agree that this impulsiveness wasn't at all like me. Wasn't I supposed to be the deliberate numbers man? Then again — have I ever been myself since Myriam betrayed me?

Betrayal — such a big word to use after all this time.

My thoughts went to that utterly strange night in Dallas, again. I had let her in, but I had refused to let her explain. She had tried so hard to do so during the dry spells between her teary outbursts, but I smugly denied her the opportunity to tell me — to explain herself, as she said. I knew she would lie anyway. Just look what she had done since our divorce. She had turned prostitute — need I say more?

After a while she had fallen asleep. Exhausted, no doubt, I thought maliciously. No wonder, given the hard work she had done before. Yes, I felt very righteous back then, in Dallas. And hurt. And pissed off all over again. But I held her in my arms 'til morning.

Now, back in the Houston Hilton, I stared through the screen. I knew I didn't just feel depressed. There was anticipation, too. The anticipation of a little boy with big clever plans. Would it work? Would she follow the instructions? Or would she suspect something? In matters of intuition, Myriam had always been the cleverer one of us. She might smell a rat. But why would she? Wasn't this just a job for her? Pubic Relations? I shuddered at the awful word play. Disgusting. I chased the grin off my face.

No doubt revenge was part of my motives. The need for closure, too. But I loved to tell myself that there was a third, nobler, less selfish motive. I had to show her who she really was. I had to kill this silly delusion of love she had — I had to free her. Maybe just as much as I had to free myself.

Was I being cruel? Maybe. "I'm only human," I had told myself over and over. On the way here and right now — waiting. But I was ashamed for what I was going to do. Ashamed enough to not even tell Erica about my plans. Anyway, it was too late now. The scene was set, the actors in place. An audience of one was waiting for the star to make her appearance.

The knock on the door sounded shy. It made my heart race. I breathed deeply to make it slow down.

The blonde gigolo went to open the door. I could not see the entrance itself, but I heard a woman's voice — Myriam's, but higher, excited. And yes, she was naked when she walked into the room. Naked except for whorish black stockings, red garters and plastic platform heels — just as agreed upon. There was no hair on her mound, I saw. Her exposed, heavy tits bounced from the strutting — so did her reddish curls.

"Hi guys," she said, one finger between her pouting lips, like a naughty girl. She held her head at a coquettish angle — her lashes fluttering with exaggerated flirting. She looked from the blonde to the darker haired stud. "Oooooh!" she gasped. "Is this all for lil ol' me?" The tackiness made me shudder. Her voice was like a child's, but it had the throaty undertone I remembered from the Dallas hotel lounge. There was also a giggle at the end. It excited me, while at the same time filling me with the shame she so obviously lacked herself.

The other man rose and joined his buddy. He pulled Myriam towards him and kissed her right away. I heard a guttural moan as she pressed her tits into his chest. She wrapped her body around him, lifting one leg. Her bare cunt rubbed into his Italian slacks. Their kisses were wet and loud.

The blonde guy hugged her from behind and soon she was sandwiched between the two of them. A little squeal sounded when her shoulder got bitten. I saw a hand on her left tit, fingers pinching the nipple. Another hand slapped the naked flesh of her ass cheek.

Then the dark haired man pushed her down until she knelt in front of him. No words were said; none were needed. Myriam's red-nailed fingers rapidly freed the guy's cock from his fly. It was large and hung in a semi erect arc, right in front of her smiling face. "Yummy!" I heard her say. A curled tongue ran up from the shaven balls to the flaring tip, where it vibrated against the sensitive ridge. Then she let her glossed lips sink over the head. Myriam never took me like she took this man's cock into her mouth. Never this hungrily. The pain it caused inside me woke me up from the hypnotic state I had slipped into.

Then I saw the blonde guy take his cock out too. It seemed even longer. He poked Myriam's cheek with it, drawing her attention. She shrieked and grabbed it. "Oooh goodie! One more cock for lil Estelle!" Experienced fingers rubbed the second cock while her lips went down the first. It would have been a highly erotic sight for any man, but I only felt disgust and a burning sensation behind my eyes. A hot haze enveloped me — it isolated me from the outside world. I felt abandoned and betrayed, but ashamed.

The third guy came in from the bathroom. Myriam had by then sucked both cocks to hardness. He whistled his admiration, drawing Myriam's attention to his already displayed erection. She squealed even shriller at the sight, clapping her hands. She rose and ran over to him. The crazy heels made her ass wobble obscenely. She knelt again and started rubbing the pole with both hands. Maybe the sheer number of cocks excited her. Or maybe it was because this third one was even bigger. And black.

The naked woman I saw kneeling in front of the men was a total stranger to me. She was as anonymous as the first random piece of fuck meat in a pornographic movie. Even the slightest hint that she could be someone I had known, respected and loved, was light years away from my thoughts. Everything she did was alien. Her voice, her words. The cheap way she dressed. The shameless, wanton sluttiness of her actions — and the obvious way she enjoyed it. Nothing reminded me of the woman I had loved and married, shared my life with, my dreams and my bed with.

Myriam wasn't here. It seemed hard to even remember her now. The cool, witty, totally lovable woman I had shared my life with was gone. Her wonderful sense of humor had vanished. Her intelligence. Her taste and style. The sweet, warm love we made. The unconditional intimacy. All was gone. It had been replaced by this plastic creature. This screaming, rutting bitch with her pumped up tits and appalling language. She had become a wide open mouth — two splaying legs on cheap, shining platform heels. She had reduced herself to a screeching fuck-toy, inanely giggling her dignity away.

Myriam wasn't here anymore. The thought struck me and sobered me. I saw the woman being carried to the bed. By now her cunt had been penetrated from behind, while her mouth was filled with the black guy's cock. They impaled her while carrying her — she was a squealing pink piggy on a spit. The fake tits dangled from her rib cage. Wet sounds of sucking and fucking filled the room.

I had feared how I might react. There were these disgusting stories of men getting aroused while watching their loved one being fucked — jacking off as they looked on or even joining in. I needn't have worried. Ever since I got past my hormone-invested teen years, cheap, explicit porn movies didn't do much for me. I always saw the hard, inhuman cheapness of it — the emptiness, silliness even. Oh, there were erotic scenes that gave me hard-ons. But they hardly ever included the mechanical flesh pounding I was witnessing now.

Myriam — or better, Estelle — was on her hands and knees. Her face was fucked by the blonde guy, while the black cock pumped into her cunt. The dark haired stud lay under her, sucking on her tits and jilling her clit. The woman was a constant source of muffled shrieks and moans. Her ass slapped backwards in response to the relentless fucking. She already seemed to be climaxing in a constant stream of orgasms.

It was hard to believe she was just acting. Could a professional hooker be as convincing as this? It looked and sounded real enough to me. But who was I to judge? She had never been like this with me. She was never this primal or vocal. I never saw this unfettered beast in my bed.

In a distracted way I admired her professionalism — or whatever it was. Both cocks were thicker and longer than mine — by inches. But she took them with ease. She never gagged, even when the cock head made her throat bulge. Her cunt seemed to take the fat pole easily. She slammed back into the guy and each moment her mouth was free, she cried out to be fucked harder and deeper. Her breathless voice sounded alien to me. It was the voice of a stranger.

During the next hour Myriam got fucked in her cunt by each of the men. They also came in her mouth. I saw her swallow the semen and heard her obscene comments on the amount, the quality and the taste of it. By that time my feelings had gone — there was just an all-encompassing sadness. I guess part of my plan had worked. Even the final remnants of my love for this creature had surely died. I guess there would always be memories of Myriam left to haunt my dreams. But I knew now that she was dead — that maybe she had never even existed. What I had not planned, though, or even realized, was that this brutal surgical operation might take away more from me than just Myriam. As I looked straight into the extreme convulsions that racked her face, a sudden chill crept up my spine.

Would I ever feel again?

A wave of fatalism ran through me. I just stared. All power left my body. I shivered — I had no tears left, no love, no feelings. The screaming madwoman took them away with each spasm, each uncontrolled explosion of orgasmic bliss. Her red mouth sucked them straight from my soul.

After resting for a while at the center of a heap of naked flesh, the hooker started playing with the black cock again. She ran her red nails over its length and rubbed it slowly. She took the meat in her mouth to suck new life into it. She teased and cheered the stud with that sick baby-voice she seemed to have reserved for this awful afternoon.

Then she rose to her knees and offered him her ass hole. Her offer might have shocked me a while earlier. By now I only registered it as a technicality — one more off-hand service to punish me. I didn't try to remember how she had always refused me to even touch her there.

I saw now that those prudish times were in a distant past. The guy lubricated her entrance with globs of collected sperm and juices. His fingers made her moan like a bitch in heat — which by now I knew she was. Then he ran his cock into her open cunt. He pulled it out, gleaming and dripping — and plunged it into her ass hole. She cried out, but I don't think there was much pain in that scream.

The blonde guy slid under her. He lowered her onto his rejuvenated cock until her stretched cunt lips kissed his pubic bone. Right then the third hard cock hit the deep entrance to her throat. The same woman who only a few days ago insisted she loved me and wasn't like this, let herself be filled in all her orifices. And she screamed with relish.

Her final orgasm echoed through the darkening room. Ragged panting smoothed into soft and regular breathing. At long last silence returned.

I rose. I walked around the screen and on to the bed. It looked like a battlefield. It smelled like a sty. The damp sheets were knurled into fat, twisted sausages. The pillows and mattress were soaked — there were numerous spots of saliva, sweat and semen. Even specks of blood. The whore lay in the middle — she seemed exhausted. Her arms and legs were spread out, resting on her naked lovers. Her cunt and ass hole gaped open from use. All kinds of moisture seeped from them. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat and spunk. Her eyes were closed, her mouth hung open in a silly grin.

The men saw me coming and slid off the bed. They collected their clothes and went into the adjoining room to shower and dress. Not a word was said. Maybe the woman had passed out. She never reacted to the movements of her leaving lovers. The bed shook a bit, making her tits wobble slightly. I just stood over her, watching; I'd never seen them wobble like that.

Then I said her name — "Myriam." The dark lashes flew open in their circles of smeared mascara. I remembered those eyes, but I did not want to. I also knew the sperm-smeared mouth that produced my name with a shrill, scared edge. The woman hunched her body and wrapped herself in a soiled sheet — it was just a silly reflex of long forgotten modesty. The sudden movement caused obscene sounds to leave her lower body. She perched like a bird. Her eyes were big, her mouth a dark ellipse of shock. "Nooo..." she moaned.

"No, indeed," I said. "I shouldn't call you Myriam, should I? "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" as you wrote me — remember? You even gave it three exclamation marks."

She just stared and swallowed. Then she repeated my name. "Bruce."

I sat down on the bed's edge. "Today I decided once and for all to kill Myriam," I said. My voice was as empty as I felt. "Tell me, please ... did I succeed?"

At the word "kill" she flinched. Then I guess she understood. Tears ran down her ravaged face. She started shaking her head in denial. "P-please don't," she croaked. Her voice seemed thick with liquid. Was it sperm? Tears?

"I shouldn't do what, whore?" I asked, once more making her flinch. The word shook her, as it did me, even after all I saw.

"Listen to me, Bruce. Please listen." A hand crawled out to grab me. I recoiled.

"Listen to you?" My voice grew harder. "I watched you, slut. I watched it all. Who needs listening after that? Who needs explaining?"

She opened and closed her smeared lips like a fish. Then she said: "Please, Bruce, tell me why. Why did you have to set this up and humiliate me like this?"

I thought I was beyond shock. She proved I wasn't. "Humiliate YOU?!" I screamed. The laugh that followed must have sounded quite hysterical.

"I love you, Bruce," she said. Her voice was calm, clear. It was Myriam's voice, clipped and in control. "I love you as much as you love me. You should not have compromised me like this."

My head buzzed. I had trouble breathing. "Myriam," I panted. "You are stark raving mad."

Her eyes never wavered. "Yes, Bruce," she whispered. "Yes, I guess I am."

>> next

Back to O Collection | Back to main page