As old farts go, George Wall was a pretty nice guy… for an asshole–at least, that’s what Lucy, the last of his three wives, had to say of him.

“George,” she said, blonde hair tied in a bun and her curvy body bound by a constricting, dark, but smart-looking business suit. They were at the lawyer’s office for the final mediation session of their divorce.

“You’re smart, and you’re as loyal as a dog to his master, and your cock is as long and as thick as a baseball bat. But you’re an unrelenting motherfucker in bed. My pussy, my mouth, and my sorry torn-up asshole are allergic to your monster cock.”

Right after she said this, Lucy pouted. George remembered how cute her ruby red lips looked turned down and out, a bit like a child after having a lollipop taken away from her before she’d finished sucking on it.

Three years gone, and he stilled missed those pouty red lips.

“Georgie dear,” she said, laughing. “I can’t take it any more. I’m joining that club, that special sorority of women whose pussies you have worn out with too much fucking. Shoot man, I have to divorce you because I need a rest! You and your dick, I’m either going to become a nun, or I’m going to become a lesbian.”

He chuckled remembering this.

George surveyed the restaurant. The place was well established, and the food was good. The menu was just expensive enough to keep out the riff-raff: teenagers, or families with squealing kids. The walls were paneled with dark mahogany, the tables had plenty of space between them, the carpets were plush and rich-looking.

The waiters knew George and respected him. They gave him a good table every time he ate there, which was usually at night for dinner. Today was different. He’d closed a good deal that morning, and so gave himself the day off and decided to have a late lunch at his favorite restaurant in town. The place was quiet. Only a few patrons were in the dining room, strategically placed far apart so that each could have a private space to eat, work, snooze, have a drink.

George didn’t recognized anyone in the room. No surprise, really, since this wasn’t the hour of the day when he was usually there. He sipped his Bourbon and surveyed the room.

And across the room, against the far corner, George saw what appeared to be a woman of amazing beauty and sexuality. She was in her fifties (but George could tell that she was in very good shape). She was blonde (but he thought, not a natural blonde). She wore a red sundress that displayed a proud bust line and exposed the clean soft skin of her shoulders (not a wrinkle on her skin, he thought).

The woman was busy studying the contents of a black leather portfolio, and every so often she would use a pen to make a notation on one of the pages. She’s got a head for business, he thought. She’s focused on that portfolio and completely unaware of the rest of us in this room. That made him smile, and his sat back comfortably in his chair to admire the view. She wouldn’t look up for a long time, he knew. He could look at her, admire her body and face and long hair, and she wouldn’t know for a long time.