Where will I go?" she cried."Well, in the immortal words of Rhett Butler ... frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." The receiver was slammed down in anger.I had started the process several weeks earlier, but this morning was the critical moment. If I hadn't been so sure she was sleeping in Gilson's room, I wouldn't even have tried this stunt. I was surprised at how easily it worked and at how empty this moment felt. A cuckold's victory, I thought. Too little, too late.I suppose it's appropriate to describe my situation. My name is Michael "Mick" Turvey. I am forty-three years old and I am employed as a sales representative for a building materials distributor. I've worked for this same company for over twenty years.I married Sheila Pratt almost exactly twenty years ago. We were to "celebrate" our twentieth anniversary next month. I thought it was a good marriage, having produced two wonderful children. Our first, Angela, my angel, was born a year and a half after we were married,. It looked as if it were made from sometype of wood or ancient gourd. I shook it again but as soon as the beadsstarted rattling, I gave up...I would never hear its contents with thebeads on. I pushed at the stopper with my thumb and was rewarded by aslight movement from it.Redoubling my effort, I again pried against the stopper and watched as itslowly slid from the top. I smiled as it finally became unplugged,allowing the stopper to balance precariously on its lip. I sat its cap onmy leg and slowly pulled the opened vial toward my nose.I inhaled deeply, trying to drink in any scent that came from it. As Iheld it under my nostril, I became aware that some of its contents hadtouched the underside of my nose. I touched it with my fingers in anattempt to wipe it off and as I pulled my hand away, realized that I hadonly smeared it around...now I had it on my fingers and back of my righthand.The liquid was colorless and silky smooth in feel, almost like a lighttanning oil. I realized that.
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