“No, I don’t remember any of that.” “Oh, okay”, I said, relaxing my hold on Stacy’s waist, “maybe it was some other girl”. Stacy’s arm came up, hitting my shoulder. “It had better not have been,” she said, looking up at me. I smiled at her, leaning forward and kissing her again. The heat of her lips re-ignited the spark of lust that had been burning before our interruption. Stacy’s tongue slipped back into my mouth and I slid my hands inside her coat, feeling her body under the material of her dress. I slid my hands down over her firm butt to the hem of the short dress she was wearing. Stacy pulled me closer as my hands lifted her dress. Instead of material, my hands were met with the cold flesh of Stacy’s tight ass cheeks. For a second I thought she had left her underwear off but knowing Stacy as I do she would have been too nervous to do that. My hand brushed against something on one of her cheeks and I realized it was one of the straps from the suspenders she was wearing. I. In the darkest parts of her mind, she wished her husband would die. A car accident or something. That would make it easier, she wouldn’t have to leave and no one would think anything bad about her if she was a widow. She was pretty sure she could even pull off the grieving part. It would be better than cringing every time she heard his car in the driveway. ‘Why the fuck are you always on that goddamn computer?’ Wonderful. He’d just walked through the door. Why couldn’t he at least give her a minute or two to adjust before he started in on her? ‘I’m working on a book. I’m sending it to a publisher in a couple days and I’m trying to get it ready.’ ‘Yeah, like that’s going to go anywhere. No one’s going to want your books. You never do anything with them except talk about them to that friend of yours, anyway. How many times has he emailed you today?’ From bitching about her writing to bitching about Fisher. It was his usual progression. Fisher was the real problem, as far as he was.
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