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face and tiny button nose. She had big breasts, not the high, too round, obviously fakes of the Millionaire’s daughter, but heavy torpedoes, with a wide valley between, aimed to the sides. I couldn’t see her areolas, but I imagined them huge, silver dollar sized. She probably hated her boobs; they were at odds with what society valued, and yet I found them incredibly erotic.
    She was astride him, her hips thrusting languidly. Like her breasts, her ass and hips were wider set than you see in magazines, but she wasn’t fat in the least bit, just built that way, maybe a little long-waisted. But there was something about her, about her natural body, her swaying breasts, about the way her ass ground against her man, something that was almost ineluctably erotic. She was like an ancient fertility goddess come to life.
    And then then the wind died and the curtain draped again across the patio door. For several minutes, I continued to watch. Each small gust of wind giving me a frisson of excitement as the fabric rippled, lifting up slightly, but never quite enough to give me another view inside their room.
    I put the binoculars down and for a moment imagined myself in that man’s place. I certainly wouldn’t have just been laying there like a lummox. How could he keep his hands off that ass, those tits? Why wasn’t he caressing her pink cheeks, pulling her closer to suck her big nipples into his mouth? It was truly a case of pearls before swine.
    I doubted Claire’s new boyfriend would be quite so passive. No, he had the looks of a man who liked to be in control. Even as I scanned the resort of signs of her, I imagined her in bed with him, bent in half, ankles pinned by her ears, getting pounded into the mattress.
    And then I saw her. She was sitting in a lounge chair, by the sloped lagoon pool, in a shady spot. Her book was on her lap, the bookmark unmoved from this morning. She hadn’t read a page. She was laughing again. I zoomed out, and there he was, again. The handsome stranger, camped out beside my wife, chatting her up animatedly. On the table between them -- they had had the decency to not pull their loungers right up next to each other -- were a beer for him and another fruity drink for her.
    What the fuck was she doing? Oh, we were talking. Tony has so many funny stories. But she had to see it? Feel it? The sun, the booze, the heat, the skimpy swimsuits, the carefully planned impression of privacy. They whole resort, by design, oozed sensuality. There was sex in the air. The Newlyweds felt it. The Millionaire’s daughter, eyeing the waiter, felt it. The Lesbians back in their room scissoring felt it. So what was Claire doing, talking again with this stranger?
    I recognized that my visions were just that. Crazy images spawned of sickness, medicine, and frustration at being stuck in the room. And yet, how had he found her again? Was he stalking her? Had they made plans to meet after lunch? Had they exchanged numbers? Or were my visions actually premonitions, some form of remote viewing? Jesus, I was turning into a loon. A full-blown crackpot.
    Of course, it was just a coincidence. Sure, they had both noticed each other’s bodies. That would be only natural. But it was just innocent. Two people, having a couple of drinks and telling some stories. It happens every day. A little flirtatious, maybe, but nothing particularly untoward. Except… the way she laughed… the way she glanced at his body and then averted her eyes… the way they leaned in towards each other. It looked… it felt oddly intimate. If I didn’t know Claire, if I didn’t know she was married to me, what would I think if I saw them?
    The answer came as another vision. The two of them laying together in bed, naked and sweaty, faces glowing in contentment. They looked like lovers, and not just any lovers, but lovers in that first, heady phase of intoxicating attraction.

CHAPTER FOUR
    She stayed out by the pool for a long while. At least her beau