I'm not given to lying to my husband, but I couldn't justify spending two-fifty on a ticket to see Celine Dion. He not only would have made me feel guilty about the expenditure, he would have busted my chops relentlessly about my sincere adoration of Celine. I can't help myself.
My girlfriend and I settled into our seats. Our vantage point from the balcony would afford us an unfettered view of each and every magnificent wardrobe choice and melodramatic gesture. I hummed with anticipation. As we scanned the crowd, Dawn's eyes narrowed. She blanched. I followed her gaze to the first row.
My husband was stepping over the concert-goers in the front row, his hand lightly resting upon the tight ass of our son's gorgeous twenty-two year old tutor. They settled into their seats, front and center.
What the fuck could that little bitch possibly know about Celine Dion?
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