He jumped in the shower to wash off. The phone began to ring and CiCi bolted.“Hello,” CiCi answered.“Yeah. How long it gon’ take you to get here?”“I just got out the shower. Give me twenty minutes.”“Yeah. Just hit me up when you get outside.”With that, Boston ended the call. CiCi rushed into slut mode. He lit candles – a strawberries & cream scented one in his bedroom and a Tahitian vanilla one in the living room. He lathered his entire five-foot-four-inch body with a concoction of lotion and baby oil. Next, he selected a pair of lavender thigh high socks that were embellished with yellow hearts. He slid on a pair of spandex boy short panties that were made to look like Daisy Dukes. Quickly, he chose silver sequined stilettos. He donned a black bustier style top and remarked in the mirror how sensuous he appeared. He sprayed himself with the vanilla cupcake body mist generously. Next he brushed mineral glow make-up powder onto his face. Almost done, he affixed a stocking cap to his. Becky didn’t know why I baulked every time at her insistence in singing “your” song, huh! Your bloody song! For many years I couldn’t tell her the truth about her favourite song, to challenge her understanding, against all the sworn evidence, that her favourite song was penned by me and dedicated to you when you were my bride. She may not sing like an angel, but Becky is one in every other respect; she saved my sanity, made my life worth living and continues to do so.Jack’s lawyers sent me another letter, held back by them as instructed, until after Elinor’s death and burial last month. Jack apologised to me in this new posthumous letter, his devotion for Elinor’s lifelong happiness outweighed mine and natural justice. He trusted I had still kept that framed photo. Yes, it was in the loft of our tiny house, I hadn’t thrown it away. He begged me to unseal the back to see what else he found discarded in that skip.It’s thirty years since I’d seen that music sheet, on which was written.
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