Or maybe unfold some old yellow lost love letters.The letters she'd thrown at his feet were now on the table. When he'd picked them up, he didn't know.... He'd been in a whiskey soaked haze since he'd heard the door slam behind her. He went to the table and picked them up now, his heart breaking, tears threatening as he read the words he'd written to her years ago. Words of love and need, of wanting and desiring her more than he'd wanted to breath. His knees gave and he slumped into the kitchen. He is by all definition’s dead yet alive. An Undead. Leonard is not human. Just ask him. The HA has a term for those like him. Inhumans. Not that they use it correctly, but it fits.”“Is Smith human?”“Ask him.” The most powerful woman in the world flippantly replied. She knew, just was not saying.Not willing to go that far off tract, “What did you do when you left Smith’s house?”“Chose a pseudonym and went out and smacked around self-important, impotent pretend Heroes.”“You chose to be a. Real good. Like, super fit and I don’t think her hair had ever looked as pretty. We made eye contact and she gave me a hug.“Congrats on the play! It was so great! I’m so proud of you,” she said.We made small-talk and I learned she and her husband (Greg? I think she said his name is Greg) divorced last winter and she was in the midst of moving back home. She came to the play with her mother. We agreed to meet for drinks next weekend to catch up.As the crowd started to thin out, and cast members. Seeing her heat, he closed his eyes and pushed forward into her warmth, imaging his dick was burying itself into Clara's pussy rather than the mare's. The horse grunted at the feeling of his thrust, and John moaned at the suction on his cock. He began to thrust, harder and faster into the mare. He imagined Clara calling out to him, screaming his name. The idea of her moaning and whimpering beneathe him threw him over the edge, and John came into the waiting mare.Unbeknowst to John, Clara has.