Riding her bike along the river path, her daughter in front of her, her husband behind her, she watches the lone oarsman in his single man scull glide silently through the water beside them, keeping pace, his long strong muscular arms rippling in an endless succession of steady strokes. She admires his lean craggy 50ish face as he looks up, staring back at her, never breaking concentration, admires his tenacity, his persistence, his resolve, his consistency, imagines him naked, sweat glistening off of him, pumping into her, guiding her hips as he guides the oars, remembers her husband's coworker, the former Olympic rower, whose sister had been in her class in high school, remembers ringing his doorbell on a Saturday afternoon when his wife was out of town, remembers sinking to her knees just inside the front door, remembers taking his cock in her mouth, remembers his instant hardness, remembers stripping for him, remembers him fucking her with strong steady strokes on the front hall floor, on the living room couch, on the kitchen counter, in his bed, and finally on his roof deck as the sun began to set over the city skyline, remembers and treasures every orgasm with a tiny shudder of pleasure, waves at the rower, caring only a little whether her husband sees, and speeds down the path on her bicycle.