A walk-in closet sat just beyond a large four post bed, the sheets and comforter rumpled and tossed to the side. Lacie blushed when she noticed a pair...of fuzzy black handcuffs dangling from the bed frame. A big bay window dominated one wall and the glass panes had been opened just a crack, allowing fresh air to flow into the room. The bench under the three angled windows was bare, save for a small easel with a half finished painting and a collection of paints and brushes. Ignoring the rest of. I put up with George’s idiosyncrasies. I often ignore the looks he gives other women as we walk through the mall. I pretend not to notice when he farts in bed. I don’t use sex as a negotiating tool. I’ve got plenty of other negotiating tools. So what’s his problem? It can’t be me. It has to be him. It’s some sort of mid-life crisis. He’s forty-seven years old. He’s been feeling some arthritis in his knees recently. Maybe his body isn’t cut like it used to be (and George was never a. More

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