Your husband seems like a good man. He’s got a sweet smile, and in those photographs of yours, he holds you as if he means it. Oh, but the things I would do to you knowing how it would make him feel. I’m not a writer, I’m just a man with trembling hands and a taste for the destruction of beauty, because when something’s beautiful, it needs to be soiled, and you my dear, are very, very beautiful. In a downtown bar, I’ll impress with my words and charm with my manners while all the time trying to figure out if you know what I want, and despite your good nature and that ring you wear on your finger, deep down you have a taste for infidelity just like me. Flesh is a sin, but so is everything, so let me order us another drink, and let us descend together to a place where the truth is dirty, and always shall be. You’re cute. It’s your smile that does it, and the way you pose with your children. They’re the centre of your world, and I like a woman who treats her children well. In those photos you showed me, the ones where you were on holiday together, that’s where my fantasies first took hold. With a smile on your face as you stood on the beach with your arms above your head holding up the sun, I wanted so desperately to have you between my legs and to look you in the eye in the moment of climax. Without protection, and with your lips on mine, I desired to have it all and to cross the point of no return. Destruction is creation, and with every day that passes me by, I’m making up for lost time in doing unto others what’s been done to me.