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The tables are turned on a serial killer rapist.

"That's my friend Caron, would you like her number?" she'd asked. Stan was na__ve and a very poor student of the female half of the species, but he wasn't unintelligent and had the sense to say "Yes please!" They'd gone on a date, and only three years later they were married.

'But I still don't know how women think at all,' he thought. Normally, when it was a question to do with people, he'd ask Elizabeth. This time, he didn't want to, for some reason. It seemed, well, personal.

Well. For good or ill, he'd decided to ring Denise - certainly he'd be grilled by Elizabeth, and probably Elaine, on Monday - so he'd better get on with it. He glanced at the clock. After lunch. He'd ring right after lunch. No, Now, else he'd lose his nerve.

He dialled.

"Hello?"

"Hi Denise. Um, it's Stan. Er, I was wondering, sort of, erm, what, I mean, um, did you mean, last night?" 'Christ! He'd managed to say it, but God, what a poor delivery!'

There was a pause.

"What, specifically, Stan?"

Pause.

"Stan?"

He gathered his courage, and said,

"Denise, um, last night, uh, when we got to your place, you told me, basically, er, that I had to get over it sometime, why not now?"

There was silence at the other end, this time.

"Denise?"

"Stan," she said, almost too softly for him to hear, "you know what I meant, really. It's time, now. Caron's gone. You loved her, you love her still, I know, but you need to move on."

Stan was silent.

"Stan?" Denise asked.

Still, he couldn't speak.

"Stan, are you all right?" Denise asked, with a hint of concern.

"Oh. Yes, I'm OK. Um, I'll see you on Monday," he said, and hung up despite the fact that Denise was obviously trying to say some more.

'Shit!'

- - - - - - - - - -



Over the weekend, Denise thought about Stan. She wondered whether he would see what she so desperately wanted him to see; that she was growing to love him and that it was all right for him to open up and start to love her back.

She was afraid, however; afraid of what that phone call meant but unable to bring herself to call him back. By Sunday afternoon Denise was going nuts. She needed to talk to someone, and soon.

'Elaine. I could call Elaine.' It might be complicated though...

She dialled the number.

"Elaine? It's me, Denise," she said.

"Hi Denny, what can I do for you?" came the reply.

"Laney, I need to talk to someone. Can I come around, please?"

There was a pause from the other end.

"Denny, I'm not sure that's a good idea. Susan's here."

"Please," Denise pleaded, "I really need to talk. I got a call from Stan yesterday."

Denise waited. She could tell that Elaine had her hand over the microphone, and could hear muffled conversation.

"How about we meet up for a coffee in the High Street? Iorio's?" Elaine finally said.

"Sounds good. When?" Denise answered, immediately.

"Give us about a half hour. Try to grab a booth, huh?" Elaine said.

Denise agreed and rang off.

- - - - - - - - - -



Iorio's was an old-style Italian coffee shop that had weathered the bad times and had now become newly favoured with the rise of coffee places like Starbucks. As you walked in there was a long counter to your left, where Mr. Iorio always seemed to be genially smiling at his customers. It was now young Mr. Iorio, since the original owner had retired and passed the business on to his son. At the front and to the right were various tables, but at the back there were several booths where you could be reasonably private.

Denise got there quickly.

"Hey, Mr. Iorio," she called as she walked in.

"Hey, Denise, you know it's Tony to you," the owner said, looking her up and down.

"You're looking fine today!" he continued. He liked to put on a slightly lecherous act with Denise, though she knew he didn't mean it - she'd already met the beautiful spitfire he'd married. He spoke with a faint Italian accent, although Denise knew he'd lived in this town his whole life.

"Now, now,

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