It was my imagination, I know, but I could almost feel my FUCK-powered brain analysing her scent and working out how to synthesise the right pheromona... response. But surely I did not imagine the sensation of sweat beginning to seep out from my armpits and groin. I inched closer. She shifted a little away, was it coincidence? She had given no explicit sign, but I sensed she was aware of my nearness and felt crowded. I was in an agony of suspense. If I made another move toward her she might leave. Just as I began to open a bottle of wine I got a call from the hospital. There had been an accident. I drove right over. Laura was conscious, but the doctors made it clear there was little hope. An airbag is next useless when an eighteen wheeler runs a red light into the side of a Honda. Laura motioned me close to her lips, and asked, “Who was she?” Who was she? Since marrying Laura, I hadn’t so much as looked at another woman. Laura persisted, “who was the artist? I know those dimples on. More

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