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the Sicilian Forest, commiserate, seek advice and
buoy each other in the storm.
    Then at the beginning of summer, the course of both
of their lives had snapped. Eva’s rebounded to a loving, stable,
satisfying relationship. She had even called it a second honeymoon.
For Lane, June began with the discovery Charles had chosen to deal
with the frustrations of suburban life by fucking a woman he had
met at their local bar. The bar he went to with Lane.
    A month later, he was moving out of their pleasant
Garland Street home while the neighbors pretended not to watch.
Lane remembered seeing Charles drive down the street, into his new
life and as his car turned the corner, Lane found herself staring
at Eva looking back at her. As Lane turned to go into her empty
house, Eva returned to washing her Mini Cooper.
    It had been six long months from that day to this.
Six months of her right hand on her clit while two fingers from her
left hand pushed inside. Six months filled with worthless fantasies
of Brad Pitt, Chris Pine and Ryan Gosling.
    Her need for release was so fraught with anguish and
doubt Lane’s fantasies would take absurd turns. In most, Pitt and
Gosling somehow discovered McGavin and Trent’s reputation for
dependable, inventive accounting. No matter that she specialized in
the pitfalls of Fortune 500 companies and not the details of
Hollywood stars buying Beverly Hills estates. No, in her fantasy
Pitt and Gosling had to have McGavin and Trent and they had to have
Lane handle them alone.
    Absurdity built on absurdity as Pitt’s yacht moored
at the Burnham Park Yacht Club just a few miles from Lane’s office.
With his I’ve-got-a-secret grin, Pitt would welcome her aboard,
handing her a Champaign flute. She would juggle it with his thick
file folder and her computer bag.
    Then, as fantasies go, her mind would skip from the
scenario to the main event. In some dim bedroom facing the lake,
Pitt reclined on a curving bench as Lane impaled herself on him.
His wonderful voice, a boy’s voice crossed with the sound of
leather stretching, would call to Lane as he thrust into her,
cutting off her own words. Strong hands she had seen sweeping
across 40-foot movie screens would hold her breasts, squeezing with
pleasant pressure, twisting her nipples with a few flicks of his
index fingers.
    “Fuck this Lane,” Pitt would say, thrusting on the
word ‘this.’ Then he would whisper between kisses,
conspiratorially, “Jesus your pussy feels amazing. So much better
than Angelina’s.”
    Behind her, Gosling would be pressing his perfect
lips to her back, moving up her spine, his hands on her hips, until
his open mouth closed over the back of her neck, biting and sucking
with a focused intensity. Then Pitt’s mouth was pulling at her
nipple. While lost in a paroxysm of sharp pleasure, Gossling’s iron
hard shaft would slide down the cleft of her ass. His fingers would
bite as he adjusted her.
    With a slow, wonderful torture, she would feel
Gossling’s cockhead slide down between her cheeks, the dripping
head of his lubricated dick stopping at the pucker of her ass
before opening her and sliding inside.
    Every time the fantasy ended the same. As soon as
Lane had two men inside her, she would explode in an orgasm so
intense it would only end with her nearly blacking out.
    The fantasies were satisfying, but ultimately
worthless. There was no way any of them would happen. That was fine
every once in a while, but for her, having not a single fantasy
with a chance of coming true laid another weight on her mood.
    Now Lane was mired and Eva was shining. Lane was
desperate to know how.
    The café’s side entrance opened with a gust of cold
air and there she was. Eva’s boots gave crisp clopping sounds on
the hard tiles. She threw her arms open for Lane.
    “There’s my girl,” Eva said, pulling Lane in for a
tight hug.
    “Hey baby,” Lane returned, the first real smile in a
week spreading across her face.
    As they settled in and