There was a small store a couple of blocks away, and she decided to walk. On the way back, she passed my stepfather's favorite bar. He was standing ou...tside with some of the locals.It was the first time they saw each other since the divorce papers had been served. My stepfather made things difficult by filing for full custody of Marisa; my mother countered with a full accounting of abuses. She never made an official complaint, but Aunt Esmerelda, my mother's confidant, kept detailed. I poured the wine, from our "box" of wine, and walked into the living room. I handed her the glass of wine and she took gulp verses a sip. She must have had a hard day at work. What seemed liked hours of conversation was really only maybe forty minutes. My friend had his third beer and my wife had her second drink with me acting as the server. Little did I know that later I would be serving my wife to my friend? We all spoke about how we use to go out together when he was married. Since then my. I was half dozing, half dreaming when I heard the door open and thesubdued light from the passage cast a sliver of light into the room.Backlit in the door stood Francine in a sheer silk robe, her hair down,her silhouette striking but her facial feature non-descript due to theshadow.She shrugged the robe off her shoulders and let it slide onto theground, then like a cat gently padded to the edge of the bed. She lookeddown and I saw the glint of her smile. Slowly she raised the edge of thesheet. Since he was a pitcher on theUCLA squad, it only made sense. His name was Tom.The girl was his girlfriend of 2 years, Cindi. Cindi was the veryposter child for the beach boy's California Girls song. Except she wasnot blonde. 5'8," slender, but with curves where a girl should havethem, her breasts were full yet not too big, her hips and butt shapely,with a healthy glow to her skin and long brown hair. A freshman atUCLA, she was a young girl approaching young womanhood.They walked to the side.