If people were as dedicated to his/her spouses, as some seem to be about their political party's candidates, our happiness quotient would be a hellava lot higher. Divorce rates would be down exponentially because the atmosphere on the home front would be embracing and joyous, instead of drudgingly accepted, or unacceptable but tolerated. And the political scene likely wouldn't be as volatile.

It was going to be two years since Pete died, her husband of nearly forty years. Thirty-nine years, seven months, and twenty-two days, Alice kept reminding herself when she felt downright depressed from the loss and the loneliness, which was often. Too often, her friends would tell her when she’d call to sob out her misery over the phone.

Very pregnant Sara, riding the lumbering elevator to the 28th floor to her Midwife's office, had started contractions that morning and was both scared and excited. She glanced at the creeping numbers as she felt another stab of pain, wishing the elevator wasn't so slow.

“I’ll be okay,” she whispered as her hand roamed over Emily’s short satin nightgown. Easing the gown down from Emily’s breasts, Rachel leaned over and flicked her tongue over the nipple. Emily yelped in surprise, wanting to protest because this seemed wrong, but was unable to utter anything other than a moan.

I saw Marty standing near the motorcycle dressed in jeans, boots, and leather jacket, and felt a rush of heat. His black hair and beard, with just a touch of grey, seemed to complement the sleekness of the black tank and chrome pipes — a sexy image that would invade my dreams for the next two weeks.