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Who Is Tulovski? It still hurt. One week, two days and fourteen hours after the momentous event it still hurt like hell. The object of her misery was coming around that night to collect the last of his stuff. She felt sick when she thought of the hussy's hands all over him, touching him, caressing him, wanting him. Damn the thoughts that wouldn't go away. Day and night they pestered her, prying at the edges of sleep and forcing it back so that her wilting eyes flew open under a barrage of painful images that she'd rather not imagine. And that was how the plot came to be hatched. It shot across her thought process as she lovingly ironed along the seam of his fly on the dark grey boxer shorts, the ones with the tiny hole in the material of the left buttock. "I'll tell him I've met somebody else," she said aloud. She actually enjoyed doing the rest of the ironing and by the time she had pressed the last of his fourteen shirts she had invented, built and fleshed out, the 'perfect' partner.
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