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encouragingly, squeezing her hand.
    Emily was lost in the throes of her sexual imaginings, no longer listening to Joan. Ian was reclining naked on black silk sheets; his perfect physique making her mouth water to imagine how good he must look under his clothes. The reality had to be better than this. She was convinced of it. Somehow he developed porn star proportions, making her wince, reminded by her sore groin that wasn’t appreciated. Try as she might, his outlandishly huge penis stayed within her fantasy. Just when she was about to join him on the bed, the door to the sauna creaked open. A pair of elderly women entered.
    “Are you ready to hit the showers?” Joan got up, tucking her towel around her chest.
    I’m ready to hit something , Emily thought with a mischievous smile, thinking these sexual fantasies were a good thing. Nobody ever got STD’s in fantasies. Nobody ever got hurt, damaged emotionally, and best of all; nobody knew the thoughts swirling around in her head but her. It was a safe means to explore these secret desires; without the inevitable fear of rejection. Even as she said this to herself, she knew she was slipping.
    ~~~
    Emily reclined in the tub. She avoided looking at her own body. The fat rolls wouldn’t disappear overnight as they seemed to have appeared. The warm water soothed her frayed nerves after her first day back at work. The bubbles did their job, but her heart wasn’t in the bath tonight. Her think tank seemed to have no answers for her. The one place she ever felt at peace was filled with images of Ian Sawyer.
    Emily opened one eye, glaring at the faucet when the water ran cold over her feet. Why couldn’t you have unlimited hot water? Why did it have to run out? Tears filled her eyes. It wasn’t running out of hot water that was bothering her. It was her lack of confidence these days; sorely battered in the weeks following Eddie’s death.
    The letter haunted her . Its words forever ruined whatever saintly image she might have retained of Eddie. Good, reliable Eddie was as much a lie as his last words to her.
    He r husband looked older than his thirty-four years of age; his thick, dark hair gone; the once-stocky build wasted away. She was fluffing his pillows in the bed, settling down to read to him from Sports Illustrated. It was his favorite issue.
    The swimsuit issue came that day. She was glad to read it to him ; even gushed over the bikini models while he rolled his eyes and laughed weakly at her absurd comments. His brown eyes met hers solemnly then, his smile suddenly fading, looking bleak as the moments passed.
    “I wish I could go back, Emmie,” Eddie had said in a raspy voice, his hand reaching for hers with more strength than he had, alarming her by the torment in his brown eyes. “I wish we had a do-over, baby.”
    “Don’t talk like that, Eddie,” she begged him, feeling tears threaten at his heartfelt words, growing more melancholy as the days passed. “What we had was great. Why would you say that?”
    “You deserved so much better from me, Em.” He began to cry then, giving into his anguish to know the sands in the hourglass grew fewer.
    “Are you in any pain?” Emily knew he abstained from his pain meds ; wanting to stay lucid in those last days. She reached for the huge pill bottle at the bedside. His hand stopped hers.
    “A pill can’t help me now, Em.”
    Emily recalled a certain look on his face. He dragged her to him, hugging her like he never wanted to let her go. She felt his thin body shaking. She resolved to call the doctor, knowing he was lying to her about being in pain. He looked up at her, a faint smile on his parched lips.
    “You were the best thing in my life, Em. I know that now. Don’t ever forget it.”
    The next morning she arrived with his meds and his breakfast to find him dead. She recalled feeling frozen; staring at his immobile features on the pillow, willing him to open his eyes. He didn’t open them. He was gone.
    She