by Milton Lesser
Pure fantasy, of course, but you must admit that it’s quite logical,
if you grant the basic premise...
You could not blame me for being bitter. I work hard and I work all
day; and when I came home that night, my wife was sitting on the sofa.
She had been swimming in the lake, and she wore only a skimpy bathing
suit which showed to best advantage the ivory fire of her young body.
A man was sitting with her, dressed in a pair of bathing shorts. His
arms were around her. Her arms were around him.