Last month he fought with his wife. Over a matter that questioned her fidelity. Their marriage stood precariously on the edge of a cliff. She decided to live with her mother for a while, while she vents out her own frustration towards her husband’s peeking hidden agendas. Both blamed each other for doing all the things they ought not have done after matrimony.

He. He stayed around but escaped to a holiday home by the seaside not too far away from their plasticly perfect home. There he got himself a company. A stylish girl who was wild and free as a bird, no longer tied to anyone.

He’s getting all the distraction that he needed while he waited for his wife. Sad as he was (for he was endlessly crazy about his perfectly proportioned, flawless-pale-skinned wife), he found comfort in the wild girl. Like a lover he treated her indeed. He pretended to be half devoted to her, for she, though wild and informed of how things were going between him and his wife (not through him) demanded full attention from this man she was entertaining. Easy. He was only to bear with her moodiness and her occiasional jealousy over his wife.

By and by, his heart wanted more. He lusted after her, the wild one, making excuses in his own mind that this girl had nothing. No dignity, nothing to be bound to, nought. So he touched her. He tried to make love to her. The wild creature gave in, but only just, all the time cautious of her position.

Time came when the wife agreed to come home. Slowly, but not smoothly, he let the wild one go. Her use for him was no more. When the wife comes home, he’ll have his wife all to himself. Making up would be enjoyable.

The wild one?