"How does it go?" she asks.It goes. It goes. But never arrives. She thinks, she tells me, that I --my former me -- am gradually dissolving before ever...one else's eyes, thatI -- the me I am to be -- am gradually resolving into focus. Saturdays, meanwhile, are for waking in my bed, alone. Alone. Alone.Saturdays are for wondering about the Friday that has yet to happen. AndSundays -- oh, this time of year, Sundays are meant for fog seeping itsdrizzling rain, days to wonder if the dim chill of. He returned to Tiffani and sat next to her, reaching over to the nightstand and grabbing a bottle of oil he asked her, “Tiffani, are you feeling okay?”“Yes, Sir, please give me another,” she sobbed out. Dean knew she didn’t need any more so he just started rubbing the oil into her marks and soothed her pain. She lay there under his hands and began to moan and relax with the soothing oil and rhythmic massaging.Dean loved this woman so much, and he would do anything for her, she had never felt. More

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