To make a long story short. Hospital. Surgery. Weeks in plaster.I hobbled to the local pharmacy for pain killers etc. This was the best part of it all.... Because one of the girls working there was attractive, at least to my taste. I’ve seen her before but it wasn’t until this accident we really got to talk.She was in her late 30’s and of Arabian origin. Darker skin, her body was carrying just a couple of kilos extra, well rounded bust and she had thin black hair on her upper lip. Got me wondering. I could have had an affair, but I've never had success with the ladies and I didn't want to go so far as to cheat on Sharon. Instead, I started fantasizing about the guys she had been with and what she did with them. I would jerk off picturing her giving her body like a whore to one of her ex-boyfriends or at a party. By now you're thinking that something must be wrong with me to fantasize about my wife with other guys. I guess I've always been more of a voyeur than a doer and my wife was more. The Arab desk clerk's little disclosures of her side activities more than substantiated it. Well, if she wanted it that way, there was nothing he could do about it.He flipped the page to the first attachment. It was obviously a death certificate from the Prefecture of Marseille made out in Jean's name. It also had all the pertinent data about her. The information could have only come from her. With it was attached a Certificate of Burial again certified by the Prefecture of Marseille. Cause of. “Hey. Anybody special in your life?” I asked.“No time. Why?”“Just wanted to know before I set you up tonight,” I laughed. I ran to my locker and called Amanda. Yeah, she guessed she could come over to watch a match and go to dinner tonight if I could promise dancing and drumming. Well, little lies.Karl and I met again in the last match of the day and we were both at the top of our game. We both dropped into our zones so easily that it was a joy to play. The match was tight and I took the last.