‘He was a true artist, and a good reporter.’ Barbra nodded. ‘He was,’ she said. ‘And a great husband.’ ‘You were lucky,’ Mary said. �...Husbands like him are rare.’ Barbra smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Mike had been as handsome as John, she thought, in a slightly ragged way. He’d been less smooth, less poised, perhaps. But oh, oh, oh, how she missed him still. ‘I don’t talk about him much, you know,’ she said. ‘But he is often on my mind. It’s about a year ago now…’ ‘Poor girl,’ Mary said, and. .. And then momentarily get lost into of the memoirs of illusions.... gliding in the air breathing fresh old air and floating through the wet warm waters of vices drinking from the lips and from the lollipops seeing how they opened up and how they closed down slowly smoothly and softly scrubbing the skin caressing the skin sucking licking touching and fucking the skin rubbing one skin next to the other melting and moistening sweaty and salty this and that here and there up and down in and out. More

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