© Andyhm. 2022
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons. All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.
I have no clue where the idea for this story came from, but it only took me 20 minutes to rough out. That's when I realised it could potentially fit it into the 750-word concept. I failed as the final word count for the story excluding the authors notesis 768 words. I chose the LW category, but it could just as well gone into non-erotic or romance.
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I'd spotted an old friend and he had invited me to sit and have an after lunch drink with him. So I sat at his table on the golf club terrace. I was about to ask my friend a question when from behind me, a hesitant female voice spoke my name. Glancing over, I saw an attractive middle-aged woman sitting at a nearby table.
The woman called my name again, and I walked over to her. She looked familiar.
"Hi," she said. "I don't know if you remember me; I'm Lucy Thijs. We met a couple of years ago at your ex-wife's gallery, at that exhibition of Carlo Ribeiro's paintings."
Funnily enough, I did recall her. I'd spent an enjoyable couple of hours talking to her and her husband while Sara had been busy dealing with the artist.
Carlo Ribeiro had been everything I'd disliked about a person; arrogant, Spanish, believing the world worshipped at his feet. In his early days, he'd been an incredibly gifted artist, but he'd gotten sloppy in recent years. His only redeeming feature was that he was dead. Sara was his British agent, and he, her best client, had to spend a lot of time dealing with his ego. She'd quickly learned that it was best not to discuss anything about the man or his paintings in my presence.
He'd died in a private plane crash a few weeks ago. Not a significant loss to the art world, in my humble opinion, but Sara had been upset.
"How is she holding up?" Lucy asked. "His untimely death must have been such a shock for her."
I heard her words and started to say yes, but something she'd said earlier finally registered with me. She'd called Sara my ex-wife, yet Sara hadn't mentioned anything about divorce at breakfast this morning.
I was about to correct Lucy when she added. "They seemed such a loving couple when I last saw them."
"And when was that?" I asked, more than a little confused by the turn in the conversation and concerned by the implications.
She paused to think, "Oh, it must have been a couple of months ago. James and I stayed at the Baumgartens, and they were as well."
"Who, Sara and Carlo?"