George Smithson extracted a dollar bill from his shirt pocket and placed it in his book as a marker. "Did I hear that right, dear? You are thinking of having an affair." He sat forward in the easy chair to place the book on the coffee table and turned to look at his wife.

Edith Smithson was a petite, rather pretty middle aged woman. Not much over five feet nor a hundred pounds, a firm bosom and trim ankles made up a package which, while not exactly show-stopping, drew envious glances from many a woman half her age.

"No, I said I'm planning to." Picking up her coffee cup she cradled it in both hands. "I feel I must. If not now, I may never get around to it."

George raised both eyebrows. "Something I've done - or haven't done?"

"No George. You're perfect - possibly too perfect - twenty years perfect. And that's as much perfect as I can stand. I need some imperfect in my life."

"Any specific 'imperfect'?"

"No dear, not at present."

"'Affair' implies sexual frustration. Have I failed to live up to your expectations?"

"If only you had, we might not be having this discussion."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Edith took a sip from the cup in her hands. "Well, in spite of the steamy language used in women's magazines, the bedroom pleasures available from one man must be much the same as those from any other, unless he's impotent, incompetent or eats garlic. You suffer from none of the above faults. You have also never been tedious. In fact, you are a pleasant source of amazement in your ability to innovate. When I have my affair, I will never permit some of the liberties you have taken with my person."

"Careful there girl, you'll defeat your purpose if you start with rules."

Edith put down her coffee cup a little too firmly. Some slopped over into the saucer. She regarded it with frustration and pushed it away from her.

"Yes, you're an expert on rules and goals. It's what made you rich. But what do you know about affairs. Have you ever had an affair?"

"Now that's a question of the genre which should never be asked and must never be answered. If I had, I should not admit it. If I hadn't, I would not admit it."

Edith stood up. "Damn you, George Smithson. You're not even going to attempt to talk me out of it."

"In twenty years, my dear, I have never once been able to talk you out of anything on which you've made up your mind."

"Damn you again. If only you'd said 'made up your mind on', or better still, 'made your mind up on', I'd drop the project right here." Edith strode firmly to the door. Before leaving the room, she turned and looked at the back of George's chair, smiled faintly and shook her head.

__________

PART 2: IAN

Ian MacNab braked to a halt and checked the number painted on the curb. He'd passed his objective. Reversing slowly for a hundred yards, he checked again. This was the correct address but it wasn't quite what he'd expected. Not that the house was large, indeed it was possibly the smallest in the neighborhood, not more than three bedrooms at the most. Not ostentatious but undeniably expensive. The manicured lawn and weed-free flower planters implied professional daily care - not at all the place one would expect to find a twenty five dollar chair.

Backing up an additional fifty feet, Ian pulled into the circular driveway and halted in front of the stonework entry. As he slowly got out of his car, a slight figure wearing a pinafore and dust cap appeared from behind a rose bush. "Good morning."

"Good morning, ma'am. My name is Ian MacNab." The tall lanky man paused a moment. "I phoned."

"Oh, dear. I wasn't expecting you until afternoon. I'm such a mess."

"I'll go away and come back later." The first impression of a little old lady required revision. She was no older than he but the prim carriage and precise diction were from another generation.

The delicate face broke into a friendly smile. "Certainly not, Mister MacNab. You're here now, just give me a minute to tidy up. I was about to make a cup of tea. Won't you come in?"

Removing an oversize gardening glove, the woman extended a dainty hand. "My name is Edith Smithson."

"There now, do you take sugar or cream?" The delicate lady could have been serving the assembled membership of the hospital auxiliary.

"Just plain, thank you."

"Of course, a MacNab would take it no other way." She carefully poured tea into two bone china cups. "Let's see, you called about the chairs. You're sitting on one."

A sense of unreality crept over the man. The chair he occupied was worth ten, maybe twenty times the amount she had quoted over the phone. "Might I enquire why you are selling these so reasonably? Surely you could get more from a dealer."

"Quite possibly, but I couldn't allow these old friends to be used by just anybody. I have to be sure they are to seat someone who appreciates them. There are eight altogether and that's too many at a table used only by mister Smithson and myself. Occasionally we have guests but never more than four. You said you need only two which is just right."

Ian could not suppress a chuckle. "But first, I must meet your approval. What tests must I pass?"

The blue eyes twinkled. "You're half way there. You take your tea plain, you recognized the value of the furniture and you keep your feet together when seated. Now tell me why you need just two chairs."

Ian was obviously embarrassed by the evaluation. "Well, I recently relinquished my home to my daughter and her three sons and moved into a cabin I built some years ago. It had seemed to be a good idea to have her stay with me after Mrs. MacNab died and Sally's husband took off but I just don't seem to have the patience any more to abide wee children."

Edith Smithson nodded and sipped at her tea. "Tell me about the cabin."

"Well, as I said, I built it some years ago for a summer retreat when the children were small.."

"With your own hands?"

"Yes ma'am. And then later, as the children grew up, it was our base for skiing weekends. It used to be quite remote but now it is a half mile from a supermarket. I assure you it is weatherproof and dry. Your chairs will be quite comfortable and safe."

"Why two chairs?"

"A single chair would be lonely."

The calm face was transformed from pretty to beautiful by a humorous twitch of the lips. "That earns you 'A plus', mister MacNab. The chairs are yours. I reserve the right to visit them in place to check on their well being." Rising, she went over to a small desk and returned with a sheet of paper and a pen.

The man smiled as he accepted the paper. "I would be honored if you would call me Ian."

"With one I or two?"

Mild surprise showed on the man's face as he quickly sketched a map. "Just one ma'am."

"And you may call me Edith."

Standing in the open doorway, she watched as he placed the two chairs in the car, one in the trunk, wrapped in a blanket and the other carefully maneuvered into the back seat. As he returned to say goodbye, she extended her hand, surprising him with the strength of her grip.

With a slow smile spreading over her face, she remained in the doorway until the gleaming vintage Buick turned right on Cambridge Drive and disappeared behind the Wilson's hedge.

"Perfect"

PART 3: EDITH

Edith Smithson slowly turned her head to survey the rest of the room. The two chairs were there. The delicate Chippendale pieces did not seem at all out of place among the hand hewn furnishings. They were smiling at the gleaming table top formed from three half logs. They were obviously very happy. Edith understood how they felt. She could visualize the block plane that had leveled the table top prior to careful sanding and varnishing. That plane had been held in the same rugged but gentle hands that had so recently relieved her of her coat, that had so calmly undone the buttons of her blouse.

The door had opened before the second knock. Ian had been waiting patiently behind that door the entire week, waiting for her. She was sure of it. He had not smiled. No irrelevant word of welcome passed his lips. Silently, he had stepped aside to allow her entry as their eyes met and held. His large bony hands moved gently to her shoulders as she stepped to him and placed her cheek against the rough woolen shirt...

Turning her head, she again met the eyes of the man sharing her pillow. She placed one dainty fingertip to his lips, the lips that had kissed her shoulder as he lifted her in his arms, the lips that had yet to meet hers.

An absurd thought brought a smile to her face. 'Maybe later when we're better acquainted.'

Closing her eyes she floated in the receding memory of the hour. The exciting tingling of her calves was subsiding to a pleasant benign glow. The electric incandescence of the breasts was fading slowly to a melancholy memory of the infant who had not survived to suckle at them.

Edith Smithson had often experienced orgasm (what an ugly word for such a beautiful sensation) but this was not the same, not better, just different, a universe of it's own. It was the first experience she could not share with George.

He would know, of course, George knows everything. George knows things before they happen. To be fair, her husband of twenty years had never treated her as a possession. He never imposed his will on anyone, not even his employees. It would be against his nature. No one consciously does things for George but the things they do are the things George wants done. A wave of affection for the man swept over her.

And now there was Ian. The population of her world had expanded by fifty percent. She could also love this wonderful creature yet he too would never possess her, not even while in his arms, her body and mind completely merged with his as they had so recently been.

Her breathing slowly returning toward normal, she opened her eyes to meet his steady gaze.

**********