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She didn’t care. That was who Marielle was. People don’t change. They just don’t. She got dressed. She put on one of her blouses. She slipped on one of her relatively sexy skirts and jumped into one of her sets of heels and then whoosh, she was off. She was downstairs in a flash. She grabbed another cup of coffee for the road and then she soared off in her Mercedes Benz. Another day of work and as usual, she was feeling like she was a new woman again. Yes, she was a vixen of sorts and she felt alive and ready for anything as the music blasted form her stereo just so she could feel relaxed. “So Jason how’s that lovely wife of yours doing?” Harold asked that day at work. Like Marielle, it was another day at the office. It was no different then any other day. Harold, who was always asking him about his wife, was in a good mood as usual. They talked as usual after Jason received notice of a recertification session he had to attend to for two days straight up north. “You have to go to. It was bad enough seeing people’s reactions on the street when they saw his face — it didn’t exactly get better on a beach when he took his shirt off and they saw his neck and shoulders. Nowadays he chose his places carefully, and Nostrel Tor was one of them. Neither the steepest nor the highest of the Tors, it was no climb that hikers could brag about in a bar. No steep face for the rock-climbers. No parking, no ice-cream booth, no nothing: nobody. He let his consciousness drift out to sea like some white-winged sea-bird, until a new sound cut through his contemplations. That had to be hiking boots scraping granite gravel. Damn! He decided to pretend to be asleep — like, he was respectably covered and hadn’t moved for an hour anyway. He listened. Boots on gravel — they’re on the flat bit on the other side of the pool. Only one person, he realised. Let them get on with whatever they’d come up here for and wait until they’d gone. No tinkling from carbine hooks, so it wasn’t a.
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