"Cindy, please talk to me. I'm sorry and I am worried. Please." Marcus' voice was sounding lowly on the voicemail message.
It was the eleventh message he had sent in the space of half an hour. Cindy was listening but not answering. She was still angry with him because of what he had kept from her. In her eyes, he was Roger. And his hands, they were the hands that had first adventured all over her body when it was still in immaculate condition, awakening urges which should have best been left in slumber.
He had splattered paint over something beautiful, dark and hideous was the paint that she no longer enjoyed the view. Sex was no longer pleasurable, it had become a mere means to an end. An economical end.
