She keeps stirring. The creamy, frothy mixture bubbles angrily, a grotesquely contorted visage filled with turmoil and rage, staring at up her. * * * ...t is dark outside. The boy is sleeping. Michael is sprawled in his favourite green armchair in the lounge, the lamp beside him turned down low. His long fingers, slender, elegant, lightly hold a book, occasionally turning the pages with effortless grace. Artist’s fingers, she thinks. He is an artist. But he doesn’t paint anymore. The dim light. "She looked up at him with a big smile and slowly rose to kiss him. He placed his arms around her tightly, partly for support and partly out of sheer love. They kissed once again, her body pressed close to him; she thought about telling him but decided not to destroy his euphoria. He held her in his arms and managed to move her under the warm water so they could share its feel. She thanked him and nestled her head into his shoulder."I love you, John." I love you too, sweetheart."They finished. More

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