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          “She thinks I’m cheating,” he told her on another night. His show had been over for hours, and his hotel room was deserted, save for the two of them. They often wound up alone together in one hotel suite or another; they didn’t give it a second thought.

          “Are you?” she asked, accepting the cigarette he had offered and lighting it, though she knew the answer to that as well as he did. She knew when women tried to get with him, which was constantly, and she knew he had none of it. He was seemingly the only rocker on the planet who didn’t drill everything that breathed as a matter of course. He was actually faithful to his wife. He belonged in a museum somewhere, as a natural anomaly. 

          He shook his head, exhaling smokily. “She thinks I’m fucking you,” he specified matter-of-factly.

          She smiled dismissively, laughing, “Everyone thinks we’re fucking. But I think my husband might have something to say about that.”

          Once there was no longer a husband in the picture, they were left with a wife who trusted neither, and made no secret of it.

          But it just wasn’t like that.

          Until it was.

#ItsComplicated

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© 2018, 2019 by ERIN LEIGH WEATHERHOGG.  Created with Wix.com. Stock images via Pixabay.com. IMAGE CREDITS