It was a beautiful morning, around 70F, uncharacteristically warm for that time of the year, but pleasant nonetheless, especially because we both had ...et underwear on. We walked slowly, rehearsing the bullshit story we agreed upon, in order to explain the late (pardon, early) arrival to my wife. Walking down the hushed street in this beautiful neighborhood, I felt a little bit like Dorian Gray, coming back home from a night of debauchery in the brothels near the docks. With my boyish looks and. He looked creepier than before this way. “Miss me, Leila? Miss my moves?” She shrugged, not looking at him. “What, can’t answer me, can’t admit it to yourself? Come on, stop playing games,” he said. “I don’t know,” she said, still not looking at him. “The fuck you don’t. You know, Mrs. Mrs. The Mrs. misses my fat dick! Why don’t you just admit it?” She shrugged and shook her head no. “Maybe I’m just having a nostalgic moment, remembering why I had to get away from you.” “Oh yeah, yeah, right!. More

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