The early hours of the morning were more often reserved for recovery, as my strenuous nightly activities, were heavily focused on the indulgence of adult beverages - depleting any extra energy that may in-fact lay dormant. As such, a resemblance of an Adam Sandler spinoff of Billy Madison; may accurately describe most mornings - as I make my living in the dark hours of the night.
         As 9:00 am approached, my phone burst into a sudden squeal, alerting my innermost sensories that a client may indeed require my expertise. Slowly lifting my black slinder phone into my palm, an attitude of reluctancy acknowledged the maddening skreech. Hello... I answered - a soft woman's voice replied in sequence. Good morning, may I speak with Mr.Gray? She hesitantly replied. This is Mr. Gray - my closest friends call me Andrew,. The woman on the other side of the line giggled as she agreed with my request. In a low; defeated octave... The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Scott Jones. I immediately recognized her name as a staple throughout the community of Cutler, and this call was surely going to interesting.
          Without hesitation, my inquiring enthusiasm quickly faded. I asked Mrs. Jones - how can I help you this morning? Again, with a defeated tone, she replied - Mr. Gray, I mean Andrew, it appears my husband may be having an affair, she clarified. This type of conviction is common amongst those who sit idle, taking in the most recent television series related to Peyton Place. And as irony would have it - their claims are often met with unsubstantiated evidence, as lonely women require a certain amount of sympathy as a pastime.
        Responding to her declaration, without catering to her apparent suffering - I asked Mrs. Jones, with flippant intent - if she was certain of these accusations? She responded in such a way that caught me off guard, discerning my seemingly smug inquisitions. No - Mr. Gray, as she acknowledged my devilish intent, I'm not sure my husband is having an affair. Her voice tone betrayed a mounting anger behind a seemingly controlled disposition. I've lived with my husband for over twenty years and I know when something isn't right, she explained. By all accounts, her outburst wasn't the typical response of a woman who only benefited from someone examining their husbands every movement. No, she had the emotional baggage of a woman who lay awake until the night transformed into morning. She was scorned with dimmenshing disappointment as a soul can only absorb so much pain - the body becomes insensate.

       Inside the Cutler community, vivid stories of Mrs. Jones have made their way to several dinner table discussions, as her passion to inspire troubled adults has always been a priority. Seemingly so, she was raised in a family divided with both Caucasian and African descents - paying tribute to her ancestors. In a world filled with diversity and racial tension, being equipped with the ability to regard contrasting cultures has a way of enhancing social awareness. This was the secret as to how Mrs. Jones successfully mastered the art of manipulation. She had an innate ability to fix those who were wounded, reconstructing their innermost conflict, and then elevate their psyche.
        She's always been blessed with striking features - tales of her beauty have often spewed from the mouths of lusting men, who could have only dreamed of giving her their last name. She wasn't an extremely tall woman, five foot seven at the most; however, her inner beauty was described as a masterfully written poem, orated through the perception of a goddess. Beautiful though she may be, her life was not as picture perfect as some may have envisioned. It was painfully obvious her life of perfection was in disarray and was quickly descending into an abyss of disfunction.
        I couldn't help myself, the hurt in her voice left me vulnerable as passion struck my inner core. Here I was - cut from the same cloth of those before me lusting for her unblemished allure. I couldn't be sure as to my attraction. Could it have been her striking physiognomy or was it her undying attraction for someone who was emotionally detached. At any cost - I was caught by surprise dipping my feet into a pond of reverie - incapable of fully grasping her overwhelming seduction.
       As I became increasingly enamoured with the legacy of Mrs. Jones - a smirk of childish intent feverishly entered by body as if I were exposed passing letters during first period english class. Such lust was common for those crossing paths with a woman such as herself; however - I was sure she was a woman capable of disturbing the dreams of even the most vain.
After speaking with Mrs. Jones in some length regarding her marital discord - I invited her to a quaint coffee shoppe located just on the outskirts of town. If we were to keep our operation confidential staying away from populated areas was the only infallible scenario. As it was, Mr. Jones was himself a popular fixture in the city, and those who knew him would surely love to divulge information as juicy as this. We both agreed to keep our accord under a confidential cloak as to not alert anyone of our secret operative.