Her breasts had been a source of annoyance to her before. She’d always complained they were only ‘B’s’ and I’d countered with a pronouncemen... they were ‘B-pluses.’ Now they were larger. I was willing to bet my girl-watchers of America membership card that she now wore a ‘C’ cup bra. I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask though. There are some questions one does not ask one’s ex-wife. ‘Well,’ she said, looking at her wristwatch, ‘I have to go or the boss is going to have a kitten.’ I surprised. Once we got in the small tree house, with only a twin mattress, night table with a bottle of water on it, bookshelf, kerosene lamp, and LED flashlight, Meggie asked “So what do y’all think?” I knew what she meant – but I wanted to answer the question I hoped she asked. So I replied: “I think you are an Angel. The most intoxicating woman on the planet. And I’d sell my soul for one night of passion with you.” Turns out I didn’t need to make a deal with the devil. When I said “night of passion”. More

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