The Cunningham Affair

“Marian, darling, say something.” Brad’s watery blue eyes flicked back and forth between her wide brown ones.

“Don’t call me ‘darling’ you bastard!” she shouted, slapping his hand off her shoulder. “How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, what matters is—”

“It matters to me!”

He took a deep breath. “What matters is that it’s all over, now, and I’m yours. Completely. Darling, please—”

“Please forgive you? Please pretend that nothing has changed? Please accept that you’ve been living a convenient fiction and I’m the supporting cast?” She ran a hand through her thick blond hair, massaged her temples with perfectly manicured fingers.

“I know this is difficult, but—”

“But nothing,” she interrupted. “Get your things and get out. Now.”

He continued to plead with her. She ignored him. Eventually he collected his coat and hat, sent a last wistful look in her direction, and left.

Marian took out her cell phone and dialed.

A brisk female voice answered. “Hello?”

“The cuckoo has flown. Move to stage two.”

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